Guarding the Spark
by mutemockingjay
Summary: It was with Creation that the spark was born, and it was life that had caused South to wrap it in a shell that no one could touch. That is until she met him, and the shell began to crack, leading to a path of self destruction she could never imagine.
1. Prologue

**A/N: What's up, bitches? **

**The concept of this comes from a bit of Jewish tradition, called tikkum olam, repairing the world**. **I'm not gonna go into tl;dr here about it- look it up if you want to learn more. **

**The actual title, however, while dealing with the concept of tikkum olam, comes from a Chaim Potok novel, The Promise. Go read it; you won't be disappointed. But read The Chosen first, as The Promise is the sequel.  
**

**Anyways, bits and pieces of this were attempts to do the Seven Deadly Sins challenge but the various versions- both from South and York's POV, never really worked for the challenge, and were simply too much material for a oneshot. This prologue, however, is something that came to me on the spot, and I must thank the amazing Melreincarna for helping me with the last section. The human Delta strikes once again!**

**I'm going to consistently update this for a change, mostly because about a third of it is already completed. And yes, I am in the middle of re-writing the second chapter of Beautiful Thieves, if anyone actually cares. **

**As always, reviews are love, and crit is more so.**

* * *

_Love possess not, nor will it be possessed, for love is sufficient unto love- Kahil Gibran_

_

* * *

_

She wanted to walk away.

To say, "Fuck you," and never look back.

But looking into those eyes, those piercing blue eyes that reflected that held a pain and sorrow she didn't understand. A burning torture that she couldn't fix, no matter how much she tried. He was beyond fixing and that scared the shit out of her.

Watching him self destruct, writhing with whatever hell the AI was putting him through; she knew that she could never give up.

For there was still a spark within him; the only remnant left of what he used to be.

Love.

It was a weakness, binding, drowning, falling deeper into an uncertain chasm she couldn't see the bottom of.

Her weakness, for despite it all, she still loved him.

And that would prove to be her destruction.

* * *

Unraveling.

Sadness.

Pain.

Anger.

Pain that burned the fabric of his mind, a pain that threatened to rip his soul in two. A pain that lingered in his sleep; in his waking hours; with or without his helmet.

An unraveling he could never escape.

Screaming.

Crying.

Pleading.

Pacing.

Emotions that changed as quickly as the wind; images that flashed before his eyes no matter how much he begged it to stop.

Oh, how he begged!

But the AI had lost control of itself and was dragging Wash along the path of self destruction no matter how many times he tried to fight it.

The flashes were stronger now, more vivid- mental agony turned physical as he thrashed with each new horrible detail, losing who he was in the process.

In between the flashes was pure numbness- not even the bitterness he had first experienced, which had left a foul taste in his mouth, his lips tingling.

Now he would see himself speaking, moving, eating, but he could never recall what he had said.

He could see her- Cassie- her eyes filled with tears as she reached out, grasping onto something, anything of the person she loved. But he pulled away; so much he wished to explain but never could.

_My love…_

Until the day came when all was lost, and he was too, a blackness from which he would never emerge.

* * *

Delta whirred as he programming sorted his host's thoughts into some sort of organizational system. It was not required of him, and York certainly didn't order his AI to do so, but Delta felt it was the easiest way to analyze York's feelings.

Granted, he didn't understand most of them- the flighty ways of human emotion were foreign to him, for they were simply not logical. But it was his function to assist his host in battle, and he could not do so without giving York the clarity he so obviously required.

There was one emotion, no matter how much he tried to look at it from a human perspective, he would never fully understand.

Love.

He could understand the theories behind it; it was part of the greater complex human mating ritual. It also, again in theory, was to provide a more stable environment for the process of rearing offspring, drawing on the strengths and complementing the weakness of both sexes, and on the partners as individuals.

But sadly for the humans few things fit theory.

The other emotions were majorly constructive or destructive. It was Delta's job to utilize his objectivity to assist York in finding the benefits of the latter and maximizing the former.

But there inlaid the problem. Love's strengths and weakness were exactly the same.


	2. The Absence of Presence

**A/N: Each chapter of this fic is going to open with some quote from various works of literature that define the story as a whole. This one is from a play called Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. I haven't read the play since I was sixteen, but that quote always stuck with me, and I felt it appropriate for this chapter. **

**Much appreciation for those who look over this chapter- TeamKillingFTard, and as always, Melreincarna for stylistic choices. She was also the one who helped me with the passage in the middle, about memory. **

**Enjoy, and feedback would be amazing.  
**

* * *

_"Dying is not romantic, and death is not a game which will soon be over...Death is not anything...death is not...It's the absence of presence, nothing more...the endless time of never coming back...a gap you can't see, and when the wind blows through it, it makes no sound..."- Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead_

* * *

He knew, in the end, it would be his downfall. It always was, slippery, all consuming, a choking blindness that had resulted in a literal loss of sight.

Delta had warned him; Delta always did, and just like the other times, his head filled with such blindness, he had not listened, cultivating that darkness until it was too late.

And now, lying in a pool of his own blood, floating in and out of consciousness, he allowed his thoughts to wander into places he had blocked, though now he no longer had the strength to push them away the way he used to.

Bitterness, guilt, hurt, love- a love that would never leave him, no matter how hard he fought the battle between clinging to the memories and trying to forget them.

In the last, rippling breaths of his body, his soul cried out in anguish.

_Cassie._

* * *

It's funny how things come back to us. Delta would say the human memory fragments things into pieces; we break down into a smile, a pair of eyes, a nose, their brows- all triggered by senses; taste, smell, touch.

And so it began every time he recalled the scent of desert dust clogging his nose and mouth.

* * *

He was walking (though some of the lazier Freelancers would label it as jogging) circles around base, on his second lap when he spotted her.

She was smoking, huddled up outside of the base, shifting eyes with a defiant streak- daring someone to bust her on breaking the rules.

Throwing the measly cigarette stub on the ground and putting it out with the toe of her boot she reached for another, sticking it in her mouth as she fumbled with a flimsy plastic lighter that refused to work.

"Fuckin' piece of shit…"

He wondered why he hadn't noticed her before; perhaps he had been too absorbed in clearing his own mind to pay attention to much else. Though now, for the life of him, he couldn't recall what exactly he was trying to forget.

He was, however, surprised to see her; he had never encountered another Freelancer on his walks- they usually preferred the climate controlled base but more often than not York would find himself pacing there, a caged bird with clipped wings.

It was the desert, despite the arid dryness, that he felt most at home.

Leaning up against the outside wall of the base he watched with some interest, unable to place her name. Most of the Freelancers were vague acquaintances; the exceptions being his roommates, Wash and Maine.

She continued with fiddle with the lighter, her swearing coming out in snarls of exhaled breaths in more than one language- English and…French, perhaps?

She threw the bent piece of plastic on the ground, smashing it with the heel of her boot; only to turn and notice him, her smirk faltered into a smile, only to be replaced with a scowl.

"What do you want?" She snapped, her cheeks coloring a bright pink.

"Nothing," he replied, trying to hold back a cough as the remains of the acrid smoke hit his throat.

"You got a light?" She asked, pushing back her hair in the dusty wind that blew in their direction.

He brandished his own lighter- he wasn't a smoker, but preferred to keep one on hand for the occasional…odd situation.

"Thanks," she said, taking a long drag, almost sheepish now that there was a witness to her blatant rule breaking.

"It's a nasty habit, though," he said, wrinkling his nose.

She laughed, blowing smoke in his face at her next exhale.

"Better now?" She asked her voice light and teasing.

He was unable to hide the tears gathering in his eyes, or the deep cough building up in his lungs, and she laughed once again, finishing the cigarette in rapid time, flinging it into the sand and flouncing away without another word.

* * *

Upon returning to base an hour later he discreetly inquired who the Freelancer in the purple and lime green armor was.

Agent South Dakota, he was told.

He repeated the name in his head slowly, recalling her deep, bounding laugh, messy blonde curls and 'fuck you' attitude.

_Agent South Dakota._


	3. Half in Love

**A/N: I've been working really hard at all of this, and it's helped a great deal. I also edited the hell of the piece to make it consistent and hopefully typo free. Much thanks to Melreincarna as per usual, as well as DNA for his always insightful constructive criticism. **

**Oh, and by the way, Cotillion actually exists. I didn't make that up.  
**

* * *

I was half in love with her by the time we sat down. That's the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty, even if they're not much to look at, or even if they're sort of stupid, you fall half in love with them, and then you never know _where_ the hell you are. ~J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

* * *

She didn't notice him at first- too busy squabbling with Tex, her roommate, while her twin looked on nervously in that way of his.

"Can you drop it, Cassie? Please?"

But South had no intention of "dropping it". She and Tex had a…love/hate relationship, emphasis on the hate. And right now South was vehemently protesting Tex's tendency to bring in her fiancé, a cobalt Blue soldier, at all hours of the night.

Between the loud sex and the fights South had invested in ear plugs and a pillow over her head but even those couldn't block out the noise.

So she had no choice but to face Tex's wrath. She figured she had a fifty-fifty chance of getting her way with the irate Freelancer, who was known for her sharpshooting skills and wicked right hook.

But South had once advantage the black armored Freelancer did not- Cotillion. She had considered it a massive waste of time when she was fifteen- hours of learning to waltz, how to bow to royalty, standard for children of high class societies on the East Coast.

She had bitched about it incessantly, fighting with her mother about attending. But once in the army, she had discovered that the posture she had learned- those dull waltzes- actually helped her become nimble and skilled in battle; quick on her feet, and even quicker in speed.

Of course, she lacked strength in comparison to Tex but figured that she could outrun her any day of the week. And Wash would step in if he felt she was truly threatened. Her heart fluttered when she thought of him- not long ago they had spent a night together in the desert. There was no kissing then, only his arm around her, confessions and talking until dawn.

On the way back, the Warthog speeding past its usual limit, he had reached base in record time, holding his hand out to her as she disembarked- she would never admit it, but the gesture made her fall in love with him- and he had kissed her.

And right then she knew she was a goner, all the feelings she had hidden spilling out.

Either way, the squabble with Tex had lead nowhere productive, and South found herself locked out of their room. At fucking two am.

She pounded on the door, "Let me in, you bitch, or I'll break the fucking door down!"

But it was an empty threat- recently Command had seen it fit to replace all the simple wooden doors leading to dormitory rooms with steel plated, deadbolt locked ones. That had _nothing_ to do with the fight she had gotten into with Tex last week.

Nothing at all.

Either way, she was stuck for the night. Or until she could bribe her way back into Tex's good graces by obtaining some sort of booze. Her skills in pocketing alcohol at a young age were another cultivated by the world she had been born into.

Her limbs numb and heavy with sleepiness she sunk onto the floor, leaning against the peeling wall for support. Of course, with only her armor it was near impossible to get comfortable. Looking one way and the other she shucked off the heavy steel plating, only clad in her black under suit.

_Much better._

Of course, said under suit had a tendency to cling to her skin revealing…revealing a lot of things that her mother would consider uncouth.

Which is precisely why South would revel in it. But more often than not her upbringing came to bite her in the ass.

_You can take the girl out of Cotillion, but you can never take Cotillion out of the girl._

Such was the reaction when she heard footsteps coming down the corridor, and a figure rounding the corner.

A male figure to be precise. One that was not Wash.

She vaguely recognized him- dark hair, mocha skin, deep brown eyes. What was his name? York or something?

_Yeah, that's it. York. _

But more importantly was the fact that he was shirtless, clad only in the fugly-ass fatigues that everyone has handed out. South had managed to smuggle in her own silk pajamas, thank God. Another remnant of her mother- becoming a fabric snob.

His eyes were vaguely glazed over, bloodshot, as if he hadn't slept in days. Once he noticed her, though, he flushed like a girl, making his way back to where he had come from.

_Wasn't he the one trained in hacking or some shit like that?_

She wasn't sure, but figured it didn't hurt to ask, scrambling to get back in her armor, a near impossible task considering her shaking fingers.

Why the hell was she so nervous?

Either way, if she could get out of spending the night in the hallway, what did she have to lose?

"Hey!" She called out, "You're York, right?"

She saw his shoulders tense slightly, the pink coloring making its way up to his neck.

"Yeah," he said softly.

"Do you think you can give me a hand?"

That blush again- South couldn't hold back a giggle.

"Tex locked me out again, and since Command replaced the doors with those steel ones with the locks that can only be released from the inside…"

He grinned, returning to her, "No problem."

She could tell by the pride in his voice that she had hit the mark- he was the hacker, and he obviously enjoyed his work.

"It shouldn't take me long," he said as he fiddled with the door, his hand movements so rapid that South couldn't follow them.

"How did you end up locked out to begin with?" He paused for a second before continuing, "Wait, that was a stupid question. Tex must be a difficult roommate."

South snorted, "Yeah, you could say that again. She didn't appreciate my thoughts on her behavior with her fiancé."

He nodded, "Ah, Church."

"Church? That's his name?"

"Yeah."

"Weird…"

He cleared his throat awkwardly, "Lock's done."

The door swung open, only to reveal Tex on top of said fiancé, in a rather…risqué position, only pausing to throw whatever was handy- in this case, a pillow- in York's direction.

"Get the fuck out," Tex hissed, looking murderous.

"Uh…yeah…" York quickly shut the door, leaning up against the wall next to South.

"I'm surprised I didn't hear them," South remarked, "Usually they howl like wolves."

"Thank you for that lovely mental image," he said with a grin.

"You're most welcome. Looks like I'm going to be stuck here all night anyways."

"Uh…I can't sleep…so if you want to lean on me…I swear not in a seedy way…" He blushed again, and she found herself smiling at his nervousness.

"Thanks," she replied, trying to hide a yawn and failing.

"I can't imagine you would get much sleep with…" He jerked his thumb to the door behind him.

She shook her head, "I invested in earplugs, but it didn't make a difference." She paused, "If you don't mind me asking, how'd you end up in Project Freelancer to begin with?"

"It was my foster mother's idea to join the army," he said quietly, "Put my skills to good use, instead of stealing the way I used to when I was younger, before I was placed with her."

South twitched uncomfortably, unasked questions on the tip of her tongue- things she had been bred into keeping quiet.

But as she leaned in towards him, feeling the heat from his body warming her, soothing her, she could sense something else- the tingling at her scalp, the arches of her feet, her thighs. The leaping feeling in her stomach. A feeling that could so easily run out of control, wild, untamed.

Lust.

Something she never knew with anyone other than Wash.

And the way she could feel him tense against her as she brushed her hand next to his, she knew he felt the same way.

She shook her head. She couldn't, she wouldn't. Not when she loved someone else- a phenomenon she had never dreamed possible.

She had been wild, obnoxious and…unlovable.

She cleared her throat, wishing she could clear her mind.

"So, uh, what's your name?" She asked, desperate for any sort of conversation that would keep her mind off of how… good… it felt to be touching him. And how terribly wrong that was.

"Micah," he replied, "Micah Armstrong. And yours?"

"Cassandra- or rather, Cassie."

"Cassandra," he said slowly, making the syllables sing.

And goddamnit, she felt her heart flip over when he said them.

"Call me Cassandra one more time and I'll chop your balls off," she said, half joking, half not.

He winced, "I'll keep that in mind, _Cassandra_."

His eyes sparkled when he laughed, she noticed. They were altogether different from Wash's- Wash's eyes were electric blue, deep and sorrowful, drawing her in.

York, on the other hand, had dark eyes, dancing eyes, filled with light.

She shook her head, trying to keep Wash's image fixed in her mind. Not York. Not ever York's. Allowing sleep to overtake her, she leaned up against the Freelancer, her heartbeat pounding to the rhythms of a lust she could never feel.


	4. Jaundice of the Eye

**A/N: Hola, chickadees! This chapter is rather heavy on the angst- bear with me here, the following one is on the lighter side, I swear. I always imagined Wash would be prone to jealousy when it came to romantic relationships but if you disagree with me that's cool, too.  
**

* * *

_It is not love that is blind, but jealousy. ~Lawrence Durrell, __Justine__, 1957_

_-

* * *

  
_

Wash was pissed.

No, he needed a more adequate word than that. Furious? Homicidal?

_Yeah, that's better._

When he woke up this morning he noticed York's bed was empty, but didn't think much of it. York was an insomniac, for reasons Wash could not fathom.

Though Maine's sleep talking may have had something to do with it.

Brushing the hair out of his eyes, he glanced at the inert Freelancer in the bed opposite of his own- somehow Maine's pillow ended up on the floor, his blanket tangled around his chest in a way that looked highly uncomfortable, his dark blonde hair sticking up in spikes as he turned over and muttered something about frying pans.

Shaking his head, he quickly pulled on his armor, closing the door behind him.

Though Cassie didn't know it, when he woke in the mornings he would walk by her room, just to make sure she was okay.

It was a small gesture, really, but it was something he could do to be different from the other guys he had dated over the years- or rather, guys who had fucked her up and left her to crash and burn.

He wanted to be able to give her far more than that; the love he knew she deserved. Even if she didn't see it for herself.

He knew she felt the same way- that this was far more than physical bullshit.

Or so he thought.

As he rounded the corner, he struggled to make sense of the scene. York. Cassie. States of undress. Lying on top of each other.

It was all splintered- bits and pieces hitting him full in the face, things he couldn't make sense of as his vision began to be tainted red at the edges.

She was beginning to wake, and normally Wash's heart would have turned over at the sight of her rubbing her eyes in a child-like way before she put up the front he still couldn't fully penetrate.

Now he could barely hold back pure fury, unadulterated hate coursing through his veins. His fingers tightened into fists and he wanted to beat York to an absolute pulp for being so close to her in such a manner.

Even stronger was his anger at her. Disappointment that she was not who he wanted her to be. Stupidity and self loathing for even hoping that she would change.

"Cassandra." His voice came out cold, tight; someone he didn't recognize.

He knew he couldn't hold back his temper anymore, and he didn't even bother thinking of the consequences.

* * *

"What did you think you were doing?" He asked his upper lip curling in disgust.

"Nothing." She was too tired to even meet his eyes, but the pure anger in his voice woke her faster than the strongest coffee ever could.

"I got locked out of my room, and York helped me fix the door, only to find Tex…yeah. I fell asleep in the hallway, and I guess he did, too."

He swallowed, hard, and she could see him trembling with rage, "And why didn't you come to get me as soon as you found out you couldn't get back in? Why did you choose _him?_

"It wasn't like that."

"It wasn't?" He raised his voice, his cheeks flushing a bright scarlet, "The two of you looked pretty cozy…"

"Jesus, David! I fell asleep, that's all."

"Then how did you manage to get out of all your armor, and how had he mysteriously lost his shirt along the way?"

South wanted to scream with frustration, settling instead for a low growl, "It was complete coincidence that he came down the corridor. And have you ever tried to sleep in that armor?"

"That doesn't excuse the way he was acting towards you." She could see him struggling with his words. "It was…it was wrong! Uncouth!"

"Don't use that word with me. You know I fucking hate it."

"Then what would you prefer? Slutty? Draped over him like some whore? Did you even see how he had reacted towards you?"

"Fuck you," she said, her voice now quiet, "Fuck you, David."

And with that she walked away wondering how on Earth she could love him as much as she did.

* * *

She needed a goddamn cigarette.

South wasn't much of a smoker but she found herself craving them every now and again, usually when she was stressed. Or shitfaced drunk.

Of course, smoking was a punishable offense, and she had to do so clandestinely, in the desert outside base where no one else dare lurk.

But because life fucking hated her _he_ was there, awake now (for an insomniac she vaguely wondered how he could have slept through Wash's explosion) and barefoot, fully dressed in a pair of worn jeans and a simple black t-shirt showing off his muscular arms.

Arms that she could imagine wrapped around her, as he kissed her neck…

_Shit. _

_Stop it. _

_How you can even think this way? How could you even…?_

_The lingering stench of alcohol and stale cigarettes, expensive cologne and sourness that leaked from his very pores. _

_His moist breath on her ear, whispering ever so quietly, "Child, you're a beauty."_

_No._

_Nonononono._

She fought the urge to cry out, and it was York's voice that brought her out of the mugginess of memories.

"I'm, um, sorry about causing an argument between you and Wash," he muttered, blushing again.

"You heard that?" She hung her head and he nodded.

"Yeah." There was a pause and he bit his lip, unsure of how to continue.

"I never thought he would be the jealous type," she said, her voice shaking as she lit a cigarette and desperately sucked the potent smoke into her lungs.

"So you two are…?" He left the question hanging in the air, a barrier she didn't know how to penetrate.

"I…"

"I'm sorry; I shouldn't have pried."

"It's okay," she said softly, taking another deep drag as the nicotine settled in her lungs, calming her somewhat.

"I…" She licked her lips before continuing, "I…love him. I think. Maybe. Fuck if I know."

"Oh. I see." He turned away, unable to meet her eyes, and South found herself wishing he would, longing to see the light in them as she had the night before.

But when he did, there was no light.

She finished her cigarette in awkward silence and when she pounded the remains into the sand with a heavy boot she looked up only to find that she was alone.

_Great. Fucking great._

Wash was on the rampage with his ridiculous jealousy and now she had sent York running for the hills.

She used to consider it a hobby, albeit a twisted one, to see how many people she could push away by saying the vilest, most horrible things that came to mind, often thinking, _Fuck them. I don't need their attention or love._

And she didn't want it- her peers at boarding school were shallow, self-absorbed bitches, obsessed with the latest gossip and fashion trends. The only exception had been Wash, and until that night in the desert when the truth came out she had considered him an arrogant if intelligent douchebag that she felt more strongly for than she have.

She had surprised herself by opening up to him that night; the only time she had let her guard down with another person- even her twin, despite their closeness, often had no idea what was going on in her mind.

Upon entering Project Freelancer she had met people far from the snotty bitches of her earlier days- Tex, Carolina, and Georgia, her roommates, were an improvement over said boarding school girls despite Tex and Church's constant noisiness.

But she had always wrapped herself in an impenetrable shell, the tiny spark of her soul, who she really was buried so deep within, beyond reach. No one had managed to even come close to crack that shell, the barrier of protection she had created, layered, perfected over the years.

That is until Wash managed to that night, and after he kissed her as they snuck back into Base, she knew that she loved him- she always had. That he would be someone she could trust; the shell beginning to weaken.

There were some things, though, that he would never coax out of her- which was a part of the shell that would never beak. It was a mix of love and hate, embracing and self loathing; the hope that she was loveable, but the belief that she was not, that she was merely…South shook her head.

Her fingers were shaking uncontrollably as she reached for another cigarette- the nicotine rush failing to stop the tremors- which rapidly spread to the rest of her body with brute force. She struggled to hold back tears- she wouldn't cry, she couldn't. She was stronger than that. Crying was a weakness.

But she couldn't stop, and with the memories sliding through the fissures in her shell she gave in to tears.

* * *

York was pacing. It wasn't nearly as soothing as running laps around the base, but he couldn't go back.

Not if she was there.

He had always considered himself a fairly easygoing guy- he had learned early on the power of being able to talk to people; friendships and alliances that stood strong through thick, thin, and squalor. But despite his usual nature, during his time on the street there was something hard, angry, bitter and broken inside of him- a side of himself that still felt frightening and uncontrollable.

It was that animalistic urge to survive that brought him to lock picking and thievery to begin with even if the military preferred to call him an "infiltration specialist".

In between stints in the street he had been in and out of foster homes for as long as he could remember- his mother merely a nameless face amongst the grey masses and his sister…he dug his toes deeper into the sand, trying to concentrate on the heat, the dust in the air.

Katya had healed him to the best of her ability, calming most of the anger that had so frightened him, encouraging him to use his talents for good in the military.

He was grateful for that- he would always be indebted to the kindly Russian woman who had taken him in as her own.

He resumed pacing, though with each step he only seemed to be walking backwards into his memories.

* * *

_The terror in her eyes as she was taken, her lips moving without words. _

_A hand on his shoulder, the scratchy sensation of wool against his cheek. _

"_I'm sorry, Micah. There were no options for the two of you to be placed together this time. And it's for the best."_

_

* * *

_

He didn't know how long he spent with his feet in the sand, the sun burning his arms as he stared up into the sky, closing his eyes and allowing the orange to filter through his vision. Something pulled him out the sensation, and his thoughts- the muffled though unmistakable sound of crying.

And that was one sound York never stood for.


	5. Madly in Bed

**A/N: This chapter is slightly lighter on the angst side of things this time around- I figured it would be a nice balance to the last chapter which was rather heavy in that regard. **

**As you can probably tell, I had a lot of fun writing Maine.  
**

**I've had this Maine/Cali sub-plot in mind for quite some time, even before I started writing this fic. It was part of my explanation in how Maine became the Meta. **

**Much thanks as always to Melta for her insightful comments in regards to style and giving me a very rough outline for Maine. **

* * *

_I think I could fall madly in bed with you. ~Author Unknown_

_

* * *

_

Most of her wanted him to leave her alone.

But a small part, the soul leaking between the cracks, was secretly glad that he was still there and that he had found her; alone and so desperate for human company. Of course, the confusion, disgust, and self loathing would not allow her to even consider such a yearning. All the same, she had not heard or seen him- rather she sensed him next to her- approaching her far closer than she wanted him to be. Too emotionally spent to consider her actions she retreated back into her shell.

She raised her head high pretending that her face wasn't blotchy and swollen from tears that left streaks of dirt on her cheeks.

Because she was better than that.

Not to mention the salty wetness would make her armor rust- an oft wielded mantra that did little good.

"Fuck off," she said.

He didn't move.

"I said fuck off," she repeated, louder this time.

Again, nothing. Merely him sitting in the sand next to her, as if he wanted to hold her until the pain was gone.

And that was something she could never accept.

She stood up, her voice a low growl, "If you don't move in the next ten seconds I won't hesitate to use you as target practice, asshole."

He licked his lips, speaking each word slowly and clearly, "We both know you wouldn't do that."

"Don't you dare presume to tell me what I will and will not do!" She cried the words out of her mouth before she realized what she was saying.

_Fuck. Now I sound like Mommy dearest._

It was slightly amazing that no matter how many times South had blocked out her mother's stark coldness and razor sharp words, she would find herself sounding exactly like the woman she had grown to hate.

This blackened her mood even further and she knew if she spent another moment in York's company- his confusing, trusting, warm presence- she would fuck things up even further.

_Because that's how I roll. _

_

* * *

_

York blinked slowly, his vision fuzzy as he tried to digest what had happened over the past twelve hours. But he was never even given that moment of peace, as an all too familiar voice called out from the sandy expanse.

"York! Can you ever get out of your damn head once in a while?"

Maine jogged towards him, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

"Why do you even like being out here? It's too fucking hot," Maine groused, his armor flickering between the color of the dunes and his standard armor color, white.

"Not my fault you can't figure out the climate control on your armor," York replied.

"I can't figure out half the shit on here- still can't stop my armor enhancement from having a mind of its own."

York snorted. Maine's armor changed colors- a camouflage effect, in theory. But like most of the newly recruited Freelancers on base Maine had yet to learn how to manage his enhancement which had led to some pretty hilarious results.

So far, York's personal favorite was the garish pink and purple polka dot combination that had appeared on Maine's armor despite the owner's furious and humiliated protests.

And on occasion the result could be funny but dangerous: York still couldn't erase the mental image of Agent Georgia zooming around base as she crashed into many a wall in the process. York's own enhancement- a strong healing unit that could be used more than once- would malfunction occasionally and York would find himself on a high of pain medication.

But even so, he knew Maine well enough to be aware that the Freelancer would not walk all the way out here just to bitch about his armor enhancement and the weather.

No, the only reason Maine would haul his sorry ass out here was because he smelled trouble. And if York didn't know any better he would think that Maine came across these incidents by sheer bad luck alone.

But even spending a few weeks in the company of Maine had taught York more than he ever needed to know about the nonchalant, infuriating, yet somehow tolerable Freelancer. Though York still wasn't sure about the tolerable part- he preferred to think the best of everyone- Maine's attitude towards Agent California seemed to show that there was a part of Maine that truly cared about others.

York took a deep breath and prepared himself for whatever shit Maine intended on throwing his way.

He was surprised that Maine didn't do so, continuing to fiddle with his armor in an attempt to get control over the color change which had now morphed to a spectacular shade of puke green.

"Fuck this shit. I mean, you get a healing unit, Wyoming gets fucking time travel, and all I get is this fucking useless color thing. Seriously."

York shrugged his shoulders, and the irate Freelancer continued, "Even that slut South Dakota gets a defensive dome. Like she needs that-"

Agent Maine never finished that sentence. Nor did he see York's fist in front of his visor until it was too late.

* * *

"Fuck!"

York should have known better than to hit Maine when the latter was wearing his helmet. Their helmets were state of the art, with heady duty layers of steel and a plastic visor intended to absorb the shock of severe blows to the head.

So the only thing that was smarting was York's hand- judging by the waves of pain and his inability to move said hand it was broken.

York almost never snapped like that; it was the way Maine talked about South that led to an intense flare of anger he used to have in his childhood, getting into scuffles with others in the streets when they threatened Skye…

"You're a moron, York." Maine managed to blurt out between spasms of laughter. "What, do you have a thing for South Dakota? I've heard that she's slept with all the guys at her old base, and now she's fucking Wash…"

Judging by the look on York's face- an expression Maine had never seen before on the normally calm Freelancer- Maine decided it was time to take his leave.

_Weird._

_

* * *

_

He should have figured it out from the start. Granted, Maine wasn't as good as reading people as he liked to think- it was York who excelled in that- but Maine knew lust when he saw it.

How could he not?

In high school he had managed to get quite a following, and he had the time of his life sampling all the different girls- preppy, Goth, popular, cheerleader, shy, nerdy, even taking the virginity of a few freshmen.

It was his Biology teacher who gave him the idea of going into the military. Maine genuinely liked and respected the guy; the only teacher who was worthwhile as far as he was concerned.

"_Sawyer, we all know you're brilliant. Hell, if you actually cared you could probably become valedictorian in an instant. But I know you well enough to realize that you would never bother with that. Look, you're a good kid. I know that, you know that despite the…mishaps over the years. Try to straighten yourself out a little. It will do you some good."_

The military had managed to tame him- somewhat. There were a few habits he couldn't stop, and it was not surprising that he had the record for the most infractions at Freelancer base.

But it was his skills that had brought him to Freelancer to begin with; the Councilor had heard of his memory abilities and he was plucked out of basic training not too long after arriving.

He never expected to quit his 'live fast, die young' attitude until he met Agent California.

Maine thought the idea of love at first sight was fucking bullshit. More often than not he would experience lust at first sight, but never love.

Or so he thought.

Most of the girls Maine had "dated" (read: fucked) were pretty simple to figure out. Insecure, wanting to be loved- it didn't matter what clique they belonged to; all were the same.

But California was complicated, aloof, with a strange sort of spiritual aura surrounding her that Maine couldn't make a head or tails of. Even her accent was a mystery; most of the Freelancers were American, though there were a few exceptions.

Wyoming was one of those exceptions, and California- Shoshanna- another.

Even more unusual was that although he wanted her he was also perfectly content just talking to her about everything and anything like some sort of sappy loser.

His male pride wouldn't allow him to even considering stooping that low from his usual habits so he made a compromise of mentally undressing her while insulting her.

He was surprised that she would spar back just as well, an ironic smile that told him that she could read his thoughts and then some.

And even more shocking when she pinned him up against an abandoned walkway in Freelancer base one day and proceeded to kiss him.

It was probably the hottest thing Maine had ever seen in his life. She seemed to know that, too, instantly having the upper hand in the situation- tempting him to the point where he couldn't think, only to leave him in said hallway adjusting her blouse like nothing had happened.

Which was beyond infuriating, but it left Maine with a desire to do something more than just fuck her. He would be damned if he didn't figure out what was going on in her mind.

* * *

The room was silent, save for the few cantankerous squeals of dying bedsprings. It was probably the creepiest staring contest Maine had ever participated in. York was watching Maine while nursing a heavily bandaged hand, and Wash bore holes into York's eyes as if he was holding back from leaping up and strangling the Freelancer.

Maine sighed, rolling over, still aware that no matter which way he turned York would continue to stare, harboring thoughts that Maine didn't even want to reflect on.

It was going to be a long night.


	6. Shadows

**A/N: I normally make sure that if I upload a chapter I have the next one finished, but in this case I have broken this rule- Chapter Seven if not quite finished yet. But fuck it. **

**As always, much thanks to Melta for betaing this. And to 42IsTheMeaningofLife for letting me borrow her OC, Agent Georgia, and looking over her parts in this chapter. *blows kiss***

**Love you guys~  
**

* * *

_"Most people think that shadows follow, precede or surround beings or objects. The truth is that they also surround words, ideas, desires, deeds, impulses and memories." – Elie Wiesel _

_

* * *

_

She barely remembered leaving; storming back into the base and slamming the door to her room with a satisfying (though not nearly satisfying enough) clang.

Her vision was cloudy and it took a few minutes for the haze to finally clear her mind at which point she was so exhausted she could barely stand up.

"Cass? Are you alright?"

A lilting accent and a touch on her shoulder, skin brushing against armor.

South fought the urge to jump out her skin with what little energy she had left; between the touch and the sound of her name she felt unsettled and skittish. Almost no one called her by her name nowadays- it was a habit she had slipped into as well.

Even David had become Wash in her mind, though that would be quickly forgotten when she was livid. Wash was the only one who called her Cassie or Cass- Cassandra when he was pissed.

Except for York.

Despite the anger that flared so deep at her core the thought of York appeared to quell a fraction of the maelstrom, even leaving the tiniest flake of lightness behind. A lightness that pushed and pulled, waxed and waned with South's thoughts, though her shell stopped most of that lightness from reaching her heart.

But even the tiniest trickle left her with giddiness far better than the strongest drug, leaving her to wonder, _is this what happiness feels like?_

"Cass?"

"What the fuck do you want?"

"It's seems like there is something wrong. Is there anything I can do to help?" Carolina replied with her usual accurate, if gently spoken truth.

Out of the four Freelancers who shared the cramped room, 'Lina wasn't the oldest, but definitely the wisest.

Either way South felt as though she was crawling out of her skin and desperately peeled off her armor as rapidly as she could. Off came the skintight black body suit and on came the baggy flannel pajama bottoms and heavy sweatshirt. She may have weakened her mental will but they sure as hell weren't going to see the physical scars of said weakness.

But judging by the darkening in 'Lina's eyes she hadn't been quick enough.

"Cass, please."

"If you call me Cass again I'm going to beat the shit out of you and not be sorry in the slightest."

"South, enough." It was Georgia who spoke now, rolling her eyes.

South and Georgia hadn't spoken very much on an intimate basis, simply because South couldn't bring herself to do so with anyone- except for York. But G was Wash's partner in training, and South knew that the Freelancer would know Wash on a level that South never could.

Maybe that was what caused her to speak. Or perhaps it was another weakness, the guard dogs of her mind drifting into sleep.

Before she could stop the words, wake the sleeping dogs- so to speak- she had stumbled into the rabbit hole and everything came pouring out.

Well, almost everything.

Wash's jealousy. The way he had looked at her, disappointment in his sorrowful eyes. The stark coldness of his voice replaced by a vengeful anger she had never seen before.

But even though she had fallen deep into a world she didn't recognize, she still couldn't bring herself to say everything her heart was bursting to tell.

Wash's lips against hers. How she felt so mixed- she wanted him, but she couldn't…bring herself to be touched without flinching. Not yet, maybe not ever. The feeling she had for him that night when they drove back. How she knew, despite everything, he had managed to weave past her defenses, and even more unsettling was that he had done so before. He had held her and carried her when she was reeking of alcohol, even more shocking that she had called out for him. Details she had forgotten in her hangover the next morning.

The frightening realization that she loved him. That maybe she always had. That she still couldn't believe that anyone could. Anger. Hurt. Confusion. All rolled into one, leaving her dizzy, stumbling, pushing, blindness overtaking her.

And York.

How she had felt next to him. The easiness in their banter. His smile and his eyes- his dark, laughing eyes. How he had cared despite barely knowing her. How he had managed to get to her to speak before anyone else.

Yet she had done the same thing as she had so many times. The sport. The fucked up mess that was her mind. Pushing. Horrible words, anger she didn't understand.

She didn't even register the emotions that must have been flitting over her features, but one side glance at 'Lina told her that the older Freelancer knew much more than what South was saying. That somehow she could read into South's heart.

South shivered, wrapping herself deeper in her sweatshirt. The fleeting liberty she had felt in speaking was now being replaced with nakedness, vulnerability she never wanted. Vulnerability she could never hide from.

In that moment, though, the door swung open and in walked Tex, her black armor shining and red hair in tangles as she pulled off her helmet.

"Hello, Allison. How are you doing?" Carolina said pleasantly.

The black clad Freelancer ignored Carolina's inquiry and after a quick scan of the room sat on her own cot.

"Who's funeral?"

"Fuck off, Tex," South snapped.

"Nah, I don't think so," said Tex in an eerie, almost kind tone. Of course, "almost kind" in Tex's speech really meant "heavily laced with sarcasm" but it was less than biting than usual.

South could feel her body tense up again, the tiredness draining as she filled with a second coming of anger. Georgia could sense this almost instantly.

"Cool it, South."

The Australian accented Freelancer knew better than to reach out to touch South- although she could beat her in a fight any day of the week, South did have an unusual sense of grace on the battlefield that Georgia couldn't match.

Tex ignored the two of them, pulling off her armor and grabbing a pair of boxers and a faded oversize baseball shirt out of the cheap Swedish dresser than threatened to disintegrate at any second.

South noted that the back of said shirt had a number-69- and a name- Church. What was even more jarring was the way Tex treated the shirt, with an odd tenderness that brought out a flaming blush in her cheeks.

_Church._

She remembered that name- it was York who said that was Tex's fiancé.

'Lina, her sharp brown eyes taking in everything, looked at Tex and the way she held that baseball shirt with the wisdom of an older woman.

"How is Church doing, Allison?"

"Fuck off."

Tex began to mumble under her breath, something about 'asshole walking out on her' and 'it wasn't such a big deal to fuck his best friend'.

The red head sat on her bed, her knees drawn up to her chin and her hazel eyes blazing with anger.

South could see the fury in her, and running on an anger high herself she did the only thing she knew how to do: poke the sleeping bear.

"I swear," she said to G, "The two of them are like a soap opera. Up and down, on and off. Except there's no screaming matches over who's the baby daddy. Yet."

"Are you signing your own death warrant?" G spoke in an undertone to South, who grinned enthusiastically.

Fighting was easier than thinking. And a hell of a lot more fun.

As expected, Tex stood up, her hair matching her flaming cheeks as she grabbed South by the collar of her sweatshirt.

"Say that again, bitch, and you'll be unable to see straight for at least a week. And then how could you possibly keep fucking your precious Agent Washington?"

"Fuck you."

South looked straight into Tex's eyes, trying to think of the best way to knock her out.

But instead of the usual cold, ruthless, anger South saw something different.

Pain. Caring. Love. Fear.

"Allison, Cass…"

'Lina stepped between the two of them, pulling them apart.

"This isn't going to solve anything," she said quietly.

"And remember what happened last time, with the door?" G asked, grateful that 'Lina was around this time to prevent that from happening _all over again_.

In theory.

Georgia had attempted to break up the last fight- it was Tex who had thrown her through that door- although G liked to think she had done a fair amount of damage to Tex before that happened.

Still…she rubbed the back of her head, wincing slightly. The three of them had all ended up in the infirmary after that particular fight.

So instead of beating the shit out of 'Lina (even Tex knew better than to attempt to do so) she merely left, slamming the door behind her as the sound of her bare feet slapping against the cheap plastic flooring slowly began to fade.

And South wished she could find the words to say the redhead, but knew she never could.

* * *

He was pacing.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Turn and start over.

But each step echoed in his mind, saying the word he dreaded but welcomed the most.

Two syllables- toe hitting the floor first, followed by the heel.

_Cass-ie._

_Cass-ie._

_Cass-ie._

"Fuck!"

Why was this so hard? Now that his blood had cooled he could see how badly he overreacted. Well, sort of.

York had better sleep with one eye open- if he ever got around to sleeping.

Why York looked ready to kill Maine was something that would have been interesting if Wash wasn't so pissed.

He saw the way the Freelancer had lain over her- more than just friendly thoughts, that much was obvious. Whether she felt the same way was a conclusion he shouldn't have jumped to.

_That makes me no better than those assholes who she "dated" in the past._

He had kept an eye on her at boarding school ever since that night, though she wasn't aware of it. She treated him like he was a mosquito- an annoyance that had to be swatted away every few minutes lest it bite.

And he had treated her the same way, to a point. He kept his distance as much as he didn't want to. He wasn't even sure what kept him from getting closer to her; whenever he wanted to it was as if an invisible hand held him back, putting pressure on his chest.

He had always seen it as guys using and abusing her but he should have known better. Except for that drunken moment she had never allowed herself to be vulnerable in high school. Or ever, for that matter. In their first few months at Freelancer base she had made that clear.

It was surprising that she had opened up herself to him that night in the desert. He knew she was sneaking out somewhere in a Warthog- she wasn't exactly subtle when it came to starting the engine- but his curiosity had gotten the better of him when he followed.

_Why did I put her on a pedestal?_

He resumed his pacing, this time the sound altered slightly.

_For-give. For-give. For-give. _

But with each footstep he became less and less certain of whether or not he could, unsure of anything at all.

* * *

He could pin down the exact moment they had ceased to be twins.

It was when they were twelve; the last few days of summer faded and scattered to the wind. Those hazy days of August- heat blinding in waves, their energy finally running out after over two months.

It was the one time they didn't have to wear school uniforms (even if their mother did insist on making them wear matching clothes no matter how much they protested).

That lick of freedom- of running down the beach barefoot, of wandering around for hours with no one caring, of real sky and air instead of concrete and smog.

He scowled slightly at the thought of leaving, grabbing a smooth white stone –a sea stone- and skipped it across the blue green water.

Sitting on the bleached wood of the dock he dangled his toes in the water, impatient.

It was eleven am, and she was still not there.

In their strange twin world they woke up at the same time everyday; a biological alarm clock neither could fully explain nor understand.

Even nowadays when they no longer shared bedrooms they still opened the door at precisely the same moment. Granted, in her half dazed state she was more likely to punch him in the face (sometimes intentional, sometimes not).

Today, however, she had not done so.

He had showered, gotten dressed and ate, pretending that everything was normal, that he was used to waiting like this all the time.

But he was not.

Minutes. Hours.

He skipped another sea stone, only to have it sink into the ocean instead of moving gracefully across the water. Taking his feet to dry land he sat cross legged, reaching out to her in the only way he knew how.

Their father had called it "twinspeak" with a smile on his broad, tanned features.

Will would share a look with Cassie, a dastardly and mischievous plan up her sleeve. It was always Cass who came up with the plans, and Will who was did what he could to avoid getting caught.

Their father would smile once again, "Twinspeak, eh?"

"Nope."

They would answer in unison and he would laugh- the deep, crackling laugh that made his blue eyes shine even brighter.

A laugh Cassie shared with him, one that Will never would.

Will called to her in his thoughts, in their twinspeak.

Nothing.

He sat up now, panic seizing his bones. Across the well worn wood of the dock, the heat of the red sand burning his feet.

Into the cottage and down the hall to her room- in his haste he barely noticed their father in the kitchen, shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned at the collar as he read 'The New Yorker'.

Not that it mattered to Will.

Same routine as always.

He didn't bother knocking on her door the way he usually did- another code of theirs- simply barreling through.

The room was dark, curtains drawn despite the stubborn rays of sunshine leaking through the cracks in the windowsill, spilling across the bedspread and the bare floors.

She was huddled under said bedspread, completely covered except for a patch of tangled blonde hair across a pillow.

"Go away."

Her voice was harsh, hostile, and raw. Out of the two of them she was more inclined to lose her temper; all emotion and impulse. But this was more than a mere temper tantrum. Her voice was laced with pure, unadulterated hate; words quicksilver.

"I said get the fuck out!"

He shut the door and walked away, knowing somehow that the connection between them- the twinspeak- had been severed completely.

He hadn't fully understood her since that day, despite being paired with her at every possible opportunity.

Even in Project Freelancer the two had been considered one, even in their names- North and South Dakota.

The connection between them, no matter how broken, didn't stop him from knowing her very core. He anticipated her every move, every blow and kick and was able to spar effectively.

The Councilor has been pleased; there was even a hint of pride in the Director's voice. But instead of smiling the way he did- puffed up with importance and pride- she looked ready to commit murder, glaring at him.

He would never understand the bitterness that turned his twin from a cheeky, mischievous girl into someone he could no longer reach. But there were some things that she could not hide from him, no matter how angry she was.

North knew she loved Wash from the moment they set foot in boarding school and met for the first time. He had seen it in her, even if she didn't see it herself.

Or would even admit it to herself, let alone anyone else. He had seen it in Wash, too- at least, the jealousy in his eyes as South made a mess of herself, building a reputation she would never shed. Something more than just jealousy: concern, worry, anxiety.

North had tried to reason with South, tried to understand why she did what she did, why she pulled away from him and everyone else. But it appeared her never would.

South had tried to cover her reaction when she first saw Wash at Freelancer Base, but North could see through her defense, a rarity nowadays. The twinspeak was gone but he could still feel her on occasion, feel a pain that he had never experienced before. Her pain.

Like right now, for instance. She was in her room with the other Freelancers she shared it with- surprisingly there was no sound of furniture being broken for once. Tex storming by in a huff explained that. He had the urge to check up on her, to care for her, but she would never let him. So he did the next best thing: found Wash in his room, empty as per usual. York was almost never there, and Maine…North shook his head.

When it came to Maine, the less information the better.

North knocked on the door softly, and when he received a muffled, "Come in," pushed open the unlocked door, wincing slightly as he did so.

"These things are damn heavy."

"Yeah, well, blame your sister and Tex for that one." Wash snapped bitterly, still pacing.

North shrugged in his nonchalant way, "I'm sure they weren't the first to present such a problem and they would be helpful if a major storm were to hit or in the event of a fire or-"

Wash cut him off, "Must you always be so optimistic?"

"Someone's gotta be."

"Well it's annoying."

"I'm not the one who's annoying you." North raised his eyebrow, trying for an inquisitive, slightly cynical look but achieving neither.

Wash swiveled on one heel, turning to face North straight on, "Now you're playing psychologist on me. Great, that's just what I need."

"No, what you need is to talk this out."

Wash growled and resumed pacing.

North barely looked at the other Freelancer. He had the patience to wait this one out when many others would not; South being one of them.

But for Wash the seconds crawled by and the presence of North looming over him did not make matters any easier.

"Enough!" He barked, feeling as though he was being picked apart by North's heavy glance.

"Enough of what?" Replied North with a goofy grin that made the other Freelancer appear twice his age.

"I'll talk to her, okay? Just go."

"Thank you!" North called over his shoulder as he left, whistling a mindless tune.

"And wipe that stupid grin off your face!"

"I can't hear you…"

With his last bit of frustrated strength Wash slammed the door behind the retreating figure, panting as he did so.

North was right; that door was heavy.

Wash sunk into a chair and sighed slowly.

For once in his life the intelligent, well spoken Freelancer had no idea what to say.

* * *

_Forgiveness. _

South turned the word over and over in her mind, dissecting the syllables until they didn't even sound like English anymore.

"South? You there?"

Georgia waved a hand in front of her face, and South nodded.

"Yeah…I'm here."

"He talks about you a lot, you know. When we train together."

South was dying to ask what he had said but she wasn't that much of a teenage girl.

In theory.

"Look, I know you're the last person on Earth who likes to be told what to do. But hear me out. If you hate me later, whatever."

G waved her hand dismissively and continued, "I think you should forgive him. I can tell he loves you; he has for a long time. And whether or not he admits it, he needs you. You help keep him balanced. You are part of what makes Wash, Wash. So…just think about it, okay?"

G tried to remember if her armor enhancement was working today. For safety reasons, of course.

But surprisingly the volatile Freelancer did not bite, simply murmuring a quiet, "Yeah."

She swore that 'Lina made a little tching sound, a pity sound, before South gave into sleep, still turning over the word in her mind.

_Forgiveness…_


	7. Shivering and Sighing

**A/N: Rating change, peeps. It will probably be a little while before I updated chapter eight, just as a heads up. 'cause I am rather stuck on it at the moment, despite my outline for the entire fic itself. **

**For any of you non-Americans (or East Coasters) Port Authority Bus Terminal is New York, and is nasty as hell. And before you ask, no I never ended up in the situation South describes.  
**

**An honorable mention goes to the lovely and talented Piewacket who sat through my long PMs explaining the background I had given South, and how to get the psychological stuff just right. It was her who told me about the concept of "losing one's emotional virginity".  
**

**Either way, thanks to my beta, Mel, and even more kisses, thanks (and perhaps a lap dance or two) for Ever Heard of a Dictionary, who saved my sorry ass with the Wash/South in this.  
**

* * *

_By the time you swear you're his,  
Shivering and sighing.  
And he vows his passion is,  
Infinite, undying.  
Lady make note of this -  
One of you is lying."  
- Dorothy Parker_

_

* * *

_

Agent California used to be a girl of routine. Up every morning at seven, tea with her father (the Russian way) at four o'clock on the dot. There was something comforting about ritual, a sense of ease that left her in a calmer state.

When she was small she had loved it- sameness, nothing new or scary to think about let alone have to face it in reality.

That had changed as soon as she turned twelve. As she took on the duties every Observant girl was supposed to, she noticed the way her mother had withered over the years. Washing endless dishes, lighting the candles every week- it left her with a loneliness she couldn't describe. Yet when she looked up at her mother's tired face, she could see that she felt the exact same way.

From that moment on she could feel it weighing her down; a noose around her neck that squeezed just enough air out of one's lungs to be uncomfortable, but not yet dead- the worse torture of them all.

Trapped in a religion she had loved so much but could never be equal in; forced into an engagement she had never wanted.

"An honor," her father had said.

"An honor," repeated her mother, sisters, and brothers.

But to her it had been more of a prison- she dreaded the day she would have to go through with it. It was never about love, and it never would be. Maybe that's why she left when she was seventeen- underage, of course. But the recruiter certainly didn't seem to mind; especially when she let down her hair and cast aside the long sleeved dresses she had worn her whole life.

This sense of power was beyond giddiness- it was dangerous, addicting, and she drank it in the way an alcoholic yearns for a drop of vodka.

She had never learned to fire a gun in her life. Hell, she had never even touched a gun before she ended up in basic training. But it was another danger, another taste of the drink.

Whereas the old Shoshanna had been timid and shy, this new Susannah had morphed into a fierce boldness. And with each step she took, each bullet she fired, she shed that old person slowly until the day came that the old Shoshanna was never there and only Agent California stood in her place.

Maybe that was what caused her to corner Agent Maine that day at Base- a rush of power and the newfound knowledge that her appearance could have such an effect on men.

Or perhaps it was Maine himself.

She admitted she took joy in his witticism, and even more so that she could reply without being berated.

Another sip.

She had heard the rumors surrounding him, and even if she hadn't, she would have known anyway from the way he walked; the charming but devious smile on his lips. But the more she watched him, the more she began to realize that there was more than mere bravado underneath that white armor of his.

Even if she had gotten slightly carried away with the kissing.

She hadn't interacted with guys very much back home because of her father. In fact, she had barely been involved with anyone before Project Freelancer. It was York who had been her first kiss, who had told her that her eyes sparkled when she smiled.

She had felt it then- the intense crackle of attraction, the spell of waiting and leaning, wondering what would happen next. And if she was going to be honest now, she still felt a little something for the yellow armored Freelancer.

Maine, however, was a whole different story. More than a mere schoolgirl crush, settling only for shy kisses and slight touching. Maine was an ache, a wanting that drove her to be far more reckless than she had ever intended to be.

The whole damn bottle.

Running on this drunkenness, she had been beyond stopping- a car with no brakes. When she woke up the morning after that incident in the hallway, she felt the buzz fading from her body, her lips swollen and a hickey on her neck.

But like any addict, the first taste was only the beginning.

* * *

She had no idea what time it was- that always strange sensation between sleeping and wakefulness when the memories of the previous night were not fully connected to her mind.

With her head pounding and body throbbing with exhaustion, South felt as though she was experiencing a hangover tenfold. Opening in her eyes slowly and wincing as she did so, she considered getting up but even the idea of moving seemed to be an immense effort.

That sentiment, tempting as it was, barely lasted five minutes as South swallowed, only to find her mouth and throat painfully dry. Fumbling next to her bedside table, she tried and failed to find water, juice, anything.

But there was nothing and she resigned herself to getting up, albeit slower than usual, every muscle in her body protesting as she stretched them. The misty clouds of her vision began to clear at the same moment as her mind and she instantly noted two things.

One, she was alone and 'Lina had thoughtfully left a bottle of water and two painkillers on the bureau.

Two, she was totally fucked.

South's mind always worked in stages, taking in color, words, sounds and touch at each different times, slow and agonizing. Usually it took at least a few hours for her brain to fully process what she had experienced the day before, diminishing the impact and allowing her shell to do most of the work.

Today was a different story and she was hit with every experience straight on- sounds and touch and sight shuffling themselves past her defenses and settling in for a stay.

_Shit._

Before these past few days she couldn't remember the last time she had been attacked by her own thoughts like this.

What had she done then? What could she do now?

Whatever it was, she couldn't stand to stay still for a moment longer. Grabbing the water and pills, she downed them in an instant with the brief prayer that the drugs would get her to think straight. Or not at all.

As much as she relied on impulse and escape to guide her, South was not stupid. She knew if she was going somewhere she couldn't just leave without an idea of where she was going.

Otherwise you would end up at Port Authority Bus Terminal at three in the morning with nothing but a pack of watermelon bubblegum and a grand total of five dollars to your name.

Of course, she had never experienced something like that.

Not at all.

This time, she knew that escape would do her no good, as tempting as it was.

No.

It was time for a battle.

And with that, she prepared her armor slowly, carefully, with the quiet assurance of an assassin.

* * *

He ran further into the desert than he ever had before, pushing past the protesting ache in his muscles and the orders not to be too active due to his hand.

Five miles.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

That was one of the best things about running- you could lose your thoughts somewhere between the sand being kicked up behind you and the thrum of your pulse in equal rhythm to the pounding of your footsteps.

Granted, the sand made the latter impossible, his feet sinking deeper into the wavelets of the stuff with each stride, but the difficulty only made him work harder until he finally gave in and collapsed on top of the sand, the way a child would, the adrenaline buzz peaking before fading completely.

His thoughts caught up to him sluggishly, a few paces behind everything else- the poor sap in the last leg of the race that is applauded out of mere pity.

This time, however, his thoughts were sly bastards and after half preparing himself to be bombarded with images of South, he saw California instead.

She had seemed even more lost than the rest of them on their introduction to base. York knew most of the other Freelancers (himself included) had been in the military for a few years before being chosen for the Project; they fell into the routine without a hint of hesitation.

But she was awkward, colt-like in her movements and her accented words. She was Israeli, she had told him one night when she was up far too late, still adjusting, she said.

He had noticed her eyes right away; a periwinkle blue that deepened into a violet color when she smiled. That was when he had kissed her, over a glass of tea at 3am, in a world all their own as the rest of base slept.

She had been shy in her response and York hadn't pushed it any further- he would realize later he didn't have much of a desire to go further. She was sweet, but he could see her attraction to Maine, that need oozing off of her- a need to go beyond everything she had known, a need York understood himself.

That was around the time he had first run into South and he couldn't help but compare the two- both lost, and in need of healing, perhaps even saving.

Shit. He was probably developing a white knight complex or something.

He shrugged his shoulders. While he could go the psychological self analysis route, he much preferred to lie in the sand and enjoy the endless sunshine that this strange alien planet provided. Lacing his fingers behind his head he closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to slowly disintegrate until there was nothing left but images.

Until those, too, were gone, and he didn't bother grasping the lingering shadows.

* * *

She had planned to march into his room and take him head on, not allowing him to get under her skin the way he had before.

But, of course, upon seeing him sprawled out on the bed, his chest slowly rising and falling as he slept, her resolve weakened.

Georgia's words echoed in her mind.

"_You're part of what makes Wash…Wash."_

Removing her helmet, she walked over to him, pressing her lips lightly against his forehead. As she turned to leave, she heard his voice- not husky with sleep the way it would be if he had just woken up.

"Wait."

"You bastard! You were awake this entire time?" She felt her temper coming back, but even that was diluted with a smile.

"Not really."

"Bullshit."

"I might have been. For an hour, tops."

She shook her head, hands on her hips.

His shoulders sagged but he still had a cheeky grin on his face, "Okay…all night?"

"Asshole."

She perched on the edge of a wooden chair, as far away from his bed as possible. While she loved this type of banter between the two of them, she didn't trust herself to get any closer to him. Especially not when she had something important to say.

His expression changed as he half sat up, leaning on his elbows. "We need to talk." He uttered the cliché words that she hated so much.

Unfortunately, he was right.

"Yeah, we do."

"Can you come here? Please?" He indicted the space on the bed next to him, and she shook her head.

"No."

He sighed, sitting up fully and running his hands through his hair, "Look, we both really messed up yesterday."

"David, if we're going to fucking end up here again, I'm out." She regretted taking off her helmet, and of showing such tenderness towards him when she first came into his room.

He grimaced, annoyance clouding his features. "Christ, can you give me five fucking minutes to apologize?"

"That didn't sound like an apology."

"Well, maybe I shouldn't bother then."

"Fine! I don't give a shit."

"Then why the hell are you here? Shouldn't you back to draping yourself all over York?"

"Stop. Just stop." Her voice was tired, broken, and vulnerable. He wanted to draw her close, stroke her hair and remind her that he would always be there. But that wall was still between them, like reinforced glass.

"I'm sorry, Cass. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions yesterday."

"Nice to know you think of me like that."

"Cass, can you just let me talk for one goddamn second? Why the hell do you make it so hard for me to love you?"

She inhaled sharply, afraid that if she let out the breath, his words would disappear as well. The dominant half of her, her outer shell, called bullshit.

"You love me," she said flatly.

He got up, walking to where she sat, taking her hands in his. She flinched, but didn't pull away.

"Of course I do. Why the hell else would I be doing all this?" He groaned in frustration.

Her mind was thinking too fast for her tongue to catch up, the range of thoughts coming to a head. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block it out.

Act, not think, she reminded herself.

That was when she kissed him.

She had underestimated her need; a longing to stay close to him, to love and be loved. She wasn't sure she was capable of the former but right now, pushing her body against his she didn't care. She pressed her lips to his, a kiss far deeper than she ever intended, and he responded with eagerness, beginning to fumble with the locking mechanisms on her purple armor plates.

She trembled- fear and not desire in her movements, and she couldn't help but pull back, her old instincts taking the floor again.

"You confuse the hell out of me, you know," he remarked, and she laughed softly.

"Maybe that's the point."

She forced her mind to focus on him, blocking out the past.

_This is what you wanted. _

She kissed him again, standing on the tips of her toes to do so- curse her shortness. With her armor plates gone, she began to peel off her under suit, his hands brushing up against hers. He couldn't stop himself from moving his hand down to her hips and with a slight bit of apprehension, her ass.

He expected her to move away as she did before but she didn't; a small sound of satisfaction as she desperately ran her hands across the thin shirt he had slept in, slipping her tongue in his mouth as she kissed him like she had never kissed before.

That was when he lost control completely; exploring every inch of her body- he had waited far too long for this. In his frenzy he almost forgot to pull apart to breathe, and he could see that she was the same, her cheeks flushed and the same look in her eyes that he had seen in the desert, the moment that he realized he loved her.

"I fucking love you, Cass."

"Love you, too," she mumbled, expressing all she couldn't say in her heart with a single kiss- lustful, but tender.

In that moment he knew what he had to do; it was beyond cliché, but it was the only way.

It didn't take long for the stretchy black fabric to be gone, and without a moment for her to protest he scooped her into his arms and laid her on his unmade bed, his lips on her jaw line, her neck, her collarbone. He hesitated at the clasp on her bra and she nodded, guiding his hands to the hook and eye.

His hands trembled as he undid said clasp, but the encouragement in her blue eyes lead him on. He wanted to please her, show his love beyond mere words, finally connecting with her in the most intimate way.

It was the first time he had ever seen her like this- shivering with lust, that guard that she always had shattered into a million pieces.

He wanted to know every inch of her, exploring the curve of her waist, a touch on her inner thigh that left her beyond thinking, a groan escaping from her lips.

"Further…"

"I want to," he breathed in her ear.

"I need to."

* * *

She felt…confused when they were finished, his passion giving way to a sleepy relaxation as he looked at her with heavy lidded eyes.

His arms beckoned her closer, as close as she had been earlier, but something held her back.

Instead she was adrift in her thoughts as they washed over her- a mix of sadness, joy, fear. And there was openness in her heart that was thrilling but left her clinging to the remnants of her shell, the spark trembling from head to toe.

_Is this what it feels like to truly lose your virginity?_

She had lost hers at fifteen, a drunken encounter that she didn't recall the details of. All of her sexual experiences were that way- she was there but not there, a body that she did not recognize or belong to. It was emptiness, numbness; she had thrown herself in as an effort to stop those feelings, but they never did disappear, a lingering smoke she could never quite catch.


	8. Secrets

**A/N: This one took my ages to write because I have been working like crazy, and it is near impossible to write when a phone rings every five seconds. In regards to York's section at the bottom- I am not new at dabbling in that kind of slang as I researched it for an old fic of mine, and I brushed up on it for this chapter, but if I did it wrong, feel free to correct. A rough translation for what he said would be this: "You're really cute when you smile. I wish you knew how much I love you. Now hand over that drink."**

**I would like to thank not only my usual beta, Melta, for going over this chapter and giving me a few helpful prompts to kick start dialogue but to Icy for making sure Maine sounded like...well, Maine, and last but not least Ten Ways to Spoil Dinner for giving it the final once over.  
**

* * *

Why is it that some secrets can drown you while some pull you close to others in a way you never want to lose?"  
— Libba Bray

* * *

"I have to go," she whispered in his ear, his arm around her trembling form.

"Mmmm no. Stay?" He began to kiss her neck and she lost herself in the sensation, the desire creeping back up on her like a lingering shadow.

It took all of her self control not to straddle him and then start the process all over again.

They had ditched training for the day; calling in with a bad case of "tonsillitis". South had no doubt that Georgia saw through that little lie and she sent a quick prayer of gratitude her roommate's way for her discretion.

And shoving away her bad thoughts, the past five hours or so were pure happiness. She knew she wouldn't be able to push them away forever, and dreaded when they would come back. Instead, for the very first time, she lost herself in the feelings of the moment- lust and love.

"The others are going to be back soon. You know we can't get caught…like this."

Freelancer Command hadn't put a strict taboo on fraternizing with other Agents, but getting caught in the same room with a member of the opposite sex in any sort of comprising position would be disastrous.

He groaned, kissing her again. "I know, but don't I want you to leave."

She had never thought it was possible to feel this much, to truly melt under someone's touch, but when he kissed her, his hands over her body- even in the lightest brush of his fingers- she did so, weak and whole at the same time.

"I don't want to, either."

* * *

Maine was thinking about sex.

Granted, that wasn't a particularly unusual train of thought in his mind, but seeing Cali after training, curled in a chair reading a book, a wet lock of dirty blonde hair wound around her finger until it curled, his thoughts took a completely different direction.

He was…intrigued.

He had been curious about other girls before, wanting to know a little bit more than what went on between the sheets. But it was a longing he squashed not too soon after, and more often than not the girl would do that for him by being just as dull, clingy and insecure as the rest of the others.

He poured two packets of sugar in his coffee, his muscles aching after a day of working with Michigan- or as everyone called him with affection in their voice, Mich.

His enhancement had been a mess again-just when he thought he was working it out-leaving him in head to toe paisley.

Which was a pattern that Maine hoped he would never, ever be forced to see again. Or he just may lose his lunch.

Being unable to switch the damn thing off he had dragged his sorry ass all the way around the base to the side entrance with the dream that he would be able to get back to his room unnoticed.

But, unfortunately, he had no such luck. In fact, he ran straight into a dazed South Dakota, her helmet under her arm as she raced past him, as if there were something chasing her. But he knew the look in her eyes, the tell tale messy knots at the back of her head.

Obviously she and Wash had just fucked their brains out.

Though that wouldn't fully explain why she was running from the room like it was infected with the plague. Then again, it was _Wash_. Spending an extended amount of time with him was probably bound to leave someone feeling ill.

He pushed open the door to their room, not bothering to knock, which earned him a glare from a half dressed Wash as he pulled a shirt over his head.

Maine rolled his eyes, beginning to shuck off his armor and grabbing fresh clothes. "Bite me."

"Didn't know you swung that way, Maine. I guess Cali just wasn't good enough for your very, very low standards?"

"Leave Cali out of this," Maine snarled, giving Wash the finger before leaving again.

Now, nursing his cup of notoriously bad coffee (Command was cheap like that) he realized something. He had flared up the same way York had the other day, except he was slightly better at controlling his urges. Slightly.

When the yellow armored Freelancer didn't want to kill him and end up making an ass out himself in the process, Maine genuinely liked the guy.

He was easygoing, and he had a stubborn streak that Maine grudgingly admired- when York made a decision, the world was more likely to end than him going back on it.

Part of that was pride, something Maine understood- hell, even Wash understood.

But while York had a bit of arrogance within him, more often than not he wouldn't be condescending unless someone _really_ managed to tick him off.

All three of them had something in common- none of them had any tolerance for stupidity in the slightest. But while Maine was lazy enough not to put too much energy into giving a shit, Wash was probably the biggest condescending asshole Maine had ever run into.

Why the hell he was involved with South Dakota was utterly beyond him- yeah, she was pretty hot. But from what he had heard from the soldiers at her previous base, she was a crazy bitch.

Maine shuddered, draining the last dregs of coffee from his mug. Crazy girls had a tendency to be incredibly good in bed, but the aftermath was _definitely_ not worth it.

The base was exceptionally quiet for once, though Maine was pretty sure it would pick up at the dinner rush- at around this hour most of his fellow Freelancers were washing off the grime of the hours previous, collapsing in exhaustion in their beds until their growling stomachs got the better of them.

Therefore, it was only himself and Cali in the expansive room, and he sauntered over to where she sat, sliding himself right next to her.

She didn't even acknowledge his presence, turning a page in her book, but the slight rosy color in her cheeks told him that she was well aware of him next to her.

"Hey," he said, pushing the down book down so that her blue eyes met his grey ones.

"Do you mind?" She snapped, and he grinned, leaning in towards her.

"Mind what, sweetheart?" He whispered in her ear, his breath on her neck.

As expected, she shivered slightly with the sensation, closing her book in defeat.

"What do you want, Maine?"

"You," he said, in the tried and true breathy voice that most girls were suckers for. When he combined that with his original childhood accent he got more girls over him than he could possibly handle. And it was _excellent_.

Judging by the way she responded now, he figured she wouldn't be hard to reel in.

"Cute," she huffed, returning to her book.

"Why thank you, I am." He winked, allowing the silence to percolate as she grew increasingly shifty; returning to whatever the hell was so absorbing in that damn book.

"So, what are you reading that is so much more interesting than me?" She pulled the book closer to her face as if she had gone nearsighted, and he chuckled. "I bet it's a romance novel. All that women read are romance novels."

"It is not, and those things are garbage. Just full of slutty sex."

He had to smile at the way she said slutty, pronouncing the syllables slowly and in distortion with her accent, as if she had never spoken the word in her entire life. "Someone sounds a little bitter. Not getting enough romance of your own?"

"I am not bitter," she said, casting the book aside with an extra flourish.

"Well, that got your attention."

Cali flushed a deep shade of red, looking down as the embarrassment robbed her of her words.

Maine gently tilted her chin upwards to face him. "Has anyone told you you're adorable when you blush?"

With that he stood up, leaving without another word.

* * *

Night was the worst time for South, when her mind began to unravel, casting off thoughts and half spoken conversations, shadows and memories. Her shell used to do a good job of protecting her against the bad things, events she no longer wanted to recall but the scars would not allow her to forget.

It was nights like these ones that would leave her sweating as she tossed and turned in a nightmarish half daze of fitful sleep.

She hadn't had these nightmares since she was fourteen, by which time she had perfected the art of closing herself off to anyone else.

That process deteriorated after she ended up meeting him for the first time, as a stupid fifteen year old girl in over her head more than she realized. But getting high was easier than thinking about everything else, and it was a hell of a lot more fun. So was fighting for that manner. And getting so drunk she couldn't remember where she ended up.

Well, perhaps the last one was less fun, and more numbing, but it kept her going, and kept the thoughts at bay.

Except, oddly, when he was near her. She felt drawn to him, and he brought out the parts of her that no one else saw- the softer side of her, the more vulnerable side.

Of course, she was far from what he deserved- too sharp, harsh, flighty. Simply put, a bitch. Yet, somehow, he still loved her.

That was something she couldn't wrap her mind around no matter how many times he had told her today, how many times he had showed it with every touch.

And the was the fault of He Who Must Not Be Named, also known as That Son of a Bitch, or The Scum of the Earth.

Simply put, her father.

She seethed with rage as her thoughts turned to him, and even more so when she thought of her twin- her idiotic, blind, pussy-fest of a brother.

He came away from all of the scot free. The golden boy, the precious one, the favorite. Whereas she was the fuck up, the one who was never good enough- by the end she was so sick of her mother's disapproving stares that she had gone out of her way to mess things up further.

And, of course, she was the target on her father's radar.

She shuddered, feeling dirty all over- a part of her that she could never really wash off, but it sure as hell didn't stop her from trying.

As the clock rang half past midnight she climbed out of bed as quietly as she could, hoping not to disturb the others.

Tex would probably beat her to a pulp if she did so, and then there would be a repeat of the door incident. Quite possibly with more carnage.

The heavy new doors, however, were not made for sneaking, and as much as she tried to muffle the sound it still was far too loud for her liking.

She winced, and scurried off to the bathroom as quickly as her bare feet would allow her to do so.

Only when the lights were off and the mirror covered in steam did she allow herself to undress; she hung her head in shame.

With Wash it was a little bit easier to forget- or rather, she had pushed out of the back of her mind when they were so close.

She saw it in his eyes- love and lust- but that didn't mean she believed it.

She was bound to mess this up one way or another- that was almost her trademark now.

She self consciously traced the now white scars on the insides of her arms and tops of her thighs- something that was barely noticeable to anyone else but to her they were ugly eyesores that practically had a fucking neon sign pointing to her weakness.

Stepping into the shower, the water boiling hot, she scrubbed herself until she couldn't take it anymore- she knew it would only be a matter of time before the feeling would come back, but screw it.

Screw it all.

She was going to carve her place in the world, and preferably by giving it the finger in the process.

* * *

One am was probably the best time to eat cereal, York thought as he dug into a bowl of Frosted Flakes.

It meant that Maine didn't eat five bowls of the stuff, leave a few crumbs left in the box and put it back like nothing had happened.

York made a mental note to do that to Maine's box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch sometime in the future. If there was one thing York was OCD about, it was cereal. Why?

He had no idea, but it wasn't going to change anytime soon. He chewed; glad to be at peace after a day of training with Carolina.

_Ah, quiet…_

But at that moment said peace was interrupted as someone flipped the switch of the overhead lights, filling the small kitchen alcove (the only one in the dorm) and York winced as the harsh white light hit his eyes.

"Oh shit, sorry."

He blinked, his slightly blurry vision returning to normal. South stood in the corner, clad in plaid pajama bottoms and an oversized hoodie with the words 'Markham Preparatory' on the front.

"Fancy meeting you here," he replied, and she gave him a tired nod while rummaging through the cabinet, pulling out a squashed bag of Oreos in triumph.

Taking a seat across from him she pulled apart two cookies, smashing both to create quadruple stuffed cream in the center.

"You're wasting a perfectly good half of a cookie," York complained as he picked up the discarded chocolate circles and crumbled them into his bowl absentmindedly.

"I could say the same thing about you," South shot back, shaking her head with an overly tragic expression. "Such a waste of good cereal…"

"What's wrong with the way I eat my cereal?"

York raised an eyebrow and South smirked. "Your lack of milk in said cereal disturbs me."

"Milk and cereal is gross combination," York replied, grimacing at the thought.

She couldn't help but laugh; she felt light around him, like he had some sort of energy radiating from within that calmed her, made her forgot, made her almost…normal.

"Your face is a gross combination." South took a bite of her new and improved cookie, spilling crumbs down her sweatshirt.

"That doesn't even make any sense."

She chewed and swallowed before speaking again, "And that's the beauty of it. The things that never make sense turn out to be the things that make the most sense."

"Who are you, Lewis Carroll?"

She nodded sagely, getting up and looking through the cabinets for something to drink. She pushed back the bottles of seltzer and soda, until she found the small crevice, the hidden groove of wood, emerging triumphant with a small bottle of vodka.

Hopping up on the table she grinned and popped open the bottle. "Tell me, dear sir," she said in a nasally impression of Wyoming, "Why is a raven like a writing desk?"

"That was probably the worst British accent I have ever heard."

"You think you can do one better?" South raised the bottle to her lips, and he nodded.

He cleared his throat slightly, "You're cute chicken pen ya Carpet Pile. I wish ya knew 'a much I golden dove ya. Na St. Martins-Le-Grand over that Tiddley Win."

South attempted to speak but all she could do was make a strangled, "ack!" sound as she spit out the alcohol halfway across the room in pure shock, her sweatshirt now soaked in vodka and cookie crumbs.

Her throat burned and she gasped, running towards the sink and running the water, cupping her hands under the faucet to drink.

"Whoa, slow down there." York held her damp hair back as she gulped a few more handfuls before turning around. "You okay?"

She nodded, her voice a slight rasp, "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You sure?"

She nodded, clearing her throat and hopping up on the small table. He joined her, and she handed him the bottle. "Not sure I can look at vodka the same way again- having it up your nose is not something I would recommend."

"Duly noted," he said, taking a swig and choking.

"Can't hold your liquor, York?"

"I can," he shot back hotly, and she shook her head and laughed.

"Nice try. You're probably the worst liar I've ever seen." She grinned, "Lying's all in the eyes, and your eyes tell a different story."

He placed the bottle between the two of them, "And what story would that be?"

South bit her lower lip, as if she was going to say something and thought better of it, her posture stiff for the briefest moment before she smiled, brushing the crumbs off her hoodie. "So what the fuck were you saying before? Was that even English?"

"Cockney Rhyming Slang." He pushed aside the bottle and moved closer to her, her plaid clad knee mere millimeters from his. She shifted in the smallest of movements, but allowed him to get near to her, so near that their hips were touching.

She bit the inside of her cheek in an effort to holding back her old instincts; much to surprise the feeling passed quickly. In fact, it was almost as their bodies were molded together, that it was meant to be this way, more so than anything she ever had with Wash. It wasn't crazy, no head over heels, no desire that burned so badly that she could no longer control herself. No fear. Just comfort and the slightest warmth from his body next to hers- stability.

Ever so slowly he wrapped his arm around her waist, his muscles tense should she want to jerk away. But she did not, and he smiled, losing himself in the scent of her hair; sweet, somewhat like honeysuckle.

A brief image flashed before his eyes- the sound of laughter, grass up to his ankles, making him itch but he was too excited to care. Giving chase, the bright summer sunshine on his skin; the droning hum of mosquitoes. And that scent, the slight honeysuckle in the humid air, interrupted by-

"How in the hell did you manage to learn Cockney Rhyming Slang?" South's tone was incredulous.

York shrugged his shoulders, trying to bring himself out of the memory. "I picked up a lot of strange things when I was on the street. Ran into some English kid, and he stayed with my sister and I for a while. According to him it used to be thieves jargon, and since we were a ragtag bunch of thieves…" He grinned, "You never know what might end up being useful."

"So…" South very lightly touched her bare foot to his, and he tried to ignore the tingling feeling that traveled up his feet to his calves, thighs, spine, until his head began to buzz from the sensation.

"Yes?" He asked, resisting the urge to reach out and grab her hand.

"So…" She leaned in closer, her lips almost touching his cheek, her breath a whisper on his neck. "Are you going to tell me what you were saying?"

"Now that's one secret I'll never tell." York smirked, and South nudged him playfully, putting on her best puppy dog eyes, "Not even for me?"

"Nope."

She shook her head in mock disapproval, "You're impossible, York."

"I try my best," he replied, and he was rewarded with a laugh, her hip bumping against his.

That was when she made her mistake. In her near happiness, the banter between the two of them making her feel safer than she had in years, she let her guard down completely. She rolled up the sleeves of her sweatshirt without thinking, the white scars shining as they caught the light.

York's breath caught in his throat; in that moment he was unable to speak, only question in his mind, feel for her. What kind of pain must she have been in to do that? Who had driven her to the desperation to cause those ugly, rippled scars? He swallowed, trying to control the anger that seeped through every part of his body; fury that only increased with each beat of his heart, rushing through his veins until he could barely think at all.

"South…I…" He could barely say the words that he wanted to, and she looked at him in confusion, then alarm, finally anger.

Quickly she rolled down her sleeves, hopping off the table, the soles of her feet making a smacking sound against the floor- a sound that was like the bang of a gunshot in the still room.

"That was nothing, York. You didn't see anything." Her face was devoid of expression, her voice so unlike hers that it took him a moment to register that she was even speaking English.

She didn't look at him as she walked towards the door, focused on a shadow he would never see.

"South, if you ever want to talk…" His words were helpless, hanging in the air with nothing to grasp.

That was when she turned to face him, her eyes no longer the color of the sky- they were hard and cold, a grey blue steel.

"Don't, York. Just don't."

He watched her go, left with quadruple stuffed Oreos, cookie crumbs and vodka, with the faintest scent of honeysuckle still in the atmosphere.

And his foot still tingled where she had touched it.


	9. What If

**A/N: This chapter was originally started about three weeks ago, when the episode featuring CT came out, and it was her section at the end that I wrote first. This was probably the hardest chapter to get through for some reason- in between constant interruptions from work, and a very ugly break-up. **

**This is also the last "filler" chapter before we get to the crux of the plot- the AI and being rated for implantation, etc. Much thanks to Blue Sigma for reading this over, and Melta for helping me through some tough spots here- mostly with Maine. As for Maine's mysterious Katherine, all I am going to say is that what happened between the two of them is not what you think it is. **

* * *

There are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.  
Oscar Wilde

* * *

_Breathe. _

South had run this way and that until she found an empty hall, leaning up against the wall and sinking to the floor in exhaustion. Now, chest heaving, her thoughts, once scattered and dusty, were beginning to come together, something she couldn't allow to happen.

York was gone; she had no doubt of that. She had pushed him away just like she did the others- damn him for finding her weak spots, ones that she had tried so desperately to hide. Damn him more for actually giving a shit.

Damn him triple for making her forget to put up her front. It had been so easy to be next to him, to be friends- she had almost slipped into who she used to be.

But look where that had left her. Shivering, covered in vodka and chocolate and despair at three am.

Everything she didn't want to be. Everything she had promised herself she would never become again. With him, with Wash, with her brother.

Hopeless.

Spineless.

Weak.

Capable of love.

She took a deep breath, the scent of pine floor cleaner, and plaster forcing her mind to snap out of its stunned stalemate and into action. She hadn't gotten what she wanted. She had gone too far into the past, into dangerous territory. She was a soldier, damn it!

And so she was left with a soldier's predicament: retreat and come back another day, surrendering to the limitations of her own body for the time being, or fight till the death.

Her lips curled into a twisted smile, her limbs buzzing with renewed energy as her decision was made.

_Going backward is never an option._

She wiped off the traces of water and vodka from her face (they were NOT tears, or so she told herself) and rose unsteadily to her feet, the last lingering sounds of her footsteps on the waxed floors still ringing in her ears.

* * *

The eggs were burnt.

Well, Wash wasn't even sure if the blackened, runny substance could even be called eggs anymore. With a sigh he threw the contents of the botched breakfast into the trash and headed down to the mess hall, grabbing whatever food he could lay his hands on.

Toast, vanilla yogurt and strawberries. Barely anything at all, but better than nothing. And better than admitting he had nearly set the mini kitchen in the dormitories on fire in his attempt to cook.

The door to her room was open; her roommates gone. Only she remained, in her under suit as she pulled on her armor plates.

"You smell like a chicken caught on fire." South wrinkled her nose in distaste.

"Wait, what? A chicken caught on fire? How do you even know…?"

"Summer after tenth grade. I got drunk and…you probably don't want to know the rest of that story." She waved her hand dismissively.

"No, not particularly." He forced himself to stop looking at her while she put on her armor, but if he didn't know better he would swear that she was teasing him, the way her hands lingered on her hips, her thighs.

But she knew in that way she always did, hands on her hips and a dark, challenging look in her eyes. "What?"

"Nothing."

He had always dreaded that look that she was giving him now- not one that he saw very often, but when he did it always meant that she was about to do something that he was going to hate. She had challenged him before; she always tested him in her careless ways and words, watching carefully for his reaction, to see if he would leave. And although his temper may get the better of him at times and he would find himself snapping back some darkly sarcastic reply, he would see some sort of merit in her eyes, as if he had passed an invisible exam with a key that no one could read.

And if he was going to be honest with himself he had no idea how he was able to pass these tests of hers, and he probably never would. Just when he thought he had figured her out, hit upon the reason for her abrupt, cold ways she would shift yet again and he was left scratching his head, wondering if it was possible to love someone he wasn't even sure he knew.

"Not nothing, Wash. It's never nothing with you. It's-"

Or he could just give up on uncovering the double meaning behind her words and just kiss her.

* * *

"Focus, York!"

"What?" He barely missed a blow to the head, and stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet in the process, and in the process of trying to keeping himself from falling, ended up with his helmet making acquaintances with the floor.

Carolina offered him her hand, which he took with a grateful nod. "Maybe it's best we take a break," she suggested.

"Yeah…" He knew he had been off all day- walking and not realizing how he had ended up there, his mind still in that kitchen alcove, even if his body was not.

"I haven't seen you so off since the first day we started training together, and that was only because you were half delirious from the flu." Carolina laid her hand on his arm, and while he wanted to shrug it off, there was something soothing about the gesture.

"I guess," he mumbled.

"I know."

In spite of himself he grinned, though he knew she wouldn't even see it. "It's hard to get anything past you, isn't it, 'Lina?"

"Pretty much," she said, her Argentine accent making the common expression less nonchalant. " I've spent a majority of my time with liars and cheats. It's difficult to…" She paused for a moment, and cleared her throat, "I think the expression is, 'Pull one over me'?" Her voice had a tremor in it, and she attempted to cover it with words spoken twice as fast, "What's on your mind?"

He hung his head, wishing he could close his eyes and shut out everything, but each time he attempted to do so all he saw were those scars on her arms, the look of panic and anger when she realized he knew. Every nerve in his body had screamed in blind fury when he had seen them- anger at whomever had caused her that much pain.

He must have mumbled her name, because Carolina wrapped her arm around his shoulder, "I know."

He pulled away, annoyance creeping into his voice, "What do you know about her, 'Lina? You didn't…" He licked his lips and continued, "You didn't see what I saw."

"Yes, I did," she replied simply.

"The…scars?" He hated the way the word sounded, the syllables harsh and merciless, and hated even more that it was a question, that the two of them were unable to say it as a fact.

" Yes. She rooms with me, York, have you forgotten that? She has never said a word about it, but I know more than she thinks I do. You care for her deeply. I can hear it in your voice when you say her name- softly, with tenderness."

He considered protesting, but he knew that she would see through that in an instant. He wasn't, however, going to admit that she was right, and settled for a begrudged silence.

"She does the same." Carolina chuckled, "Though she does a better job of covering it up."

He wasn't going to reply. At least, that was the mantra going through his head.

_I'm not going to reply. I'm not going to reply. I'm not going to reply…_

_God damn it. _

Sometimes Carolina spooked him with the way she knew him- better than he knew himself. With her it had always been a what if, a could have been. He got the sense that she knew that, and she merely brushed aside whatever feelings she had and continued like there was nothing there at all beyond the mere bond of friendship. And maybe there wasn't- they hadn't kissed, hadn't touched, nothing out of the ordinary. It was just the feeling of being in sync, of her anticipating his moves and him responding with just as much vigor.

For Carolina it was easier being with him that way, and in her way of reading him she could see the possibilities- the what ifs, lined up all in a row, ready for good and bad, destruction and reconstruction. Of course, it didn't have to be that way and it was her duty as his other half in battle to show him the way when he needed him, aware that he would do the same for her in her shortcomings.

Needing something and wanting something were two completely different things, though they were easily mixed up, as she knew all too well. So when she spoke again, getting up and holding her hand out to him, she hoped that he wouldn't be too blind to not listen.

"She needs you to be her friend, York. Nothing more, nothing less. She'll probably run, I'm not going to pretend that she won't, but she needs you more than she realizes."

_And you need her more than you know_, she added to herself, glad that for all their understanding he did not possess the ability to read her thoughts.

* * *

Maine found her again- same chair, same activity, same expression on her face- furrowed brows, the whisper of her voice as she followed whatever text, a mix of sounds that sure as hell weren't any language he'd heard before.

He laughed, "All that reading can't be good for you, sweetheart."

She ignored him, turning the page, though her features soured slightly. Same book, he noticed, and obviously well loved- the spine cracked and corners fraying.

"That must be some book. Let me see that." He plucked it from her hands and held it high above her head, well aware that with the ten inch height difference between the two of them her only choice would be to get stand up on the chair and quite literally throw herself at him.

But she was frozen, her gaze having followed the moving book only to meet his eyes. It was something he had seen before- deer in the headlights- and the perfect opening. He smirked, "Your eyes are too beautiful to only share them with pages and ink."

She shook her head, trying to cover up the tremor in her voice when she spoke. "Please just give me back my book before I am forced to hit you."

He lowered the book slowly, "Are you sure that's what you want?"

She reached up on her tiptoes to grasp it, but once her hand made contact with it she lost her balance, tearing the page. Sinking into the chair she sighed, cradling the volume like a newborn. "It's torn now," she said, more to herself than to him.

"I can fix that." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop to reconsider why the hell he should bother, or why the sight of her, so disappointed, made him want to bring the smile back on her face.

"No, it's alright. Just go."

"As you wish, sweetheart." He brushed his fingertips against her left cheek, and turned away, walking a few paces with the expectation that she would follow.

She bit her lower lip, waiting those agonizing few seconds until he was out of earshot. "Thank you," she whispered, and once she was certain he would not turn around she pressed her hand to her cheek and smiled.

* * *

Maine frowned, his mind going into overdrive as he calculated possibilities, outcomes, consequences. By now he should have had her in bed while she called out his name. It was supposed to be easy for him; he had learned, perfecting his act to a T. A few bits of flattery here, a light touch there- most would be begging for more in no time.

But not her.

Though he would never admit it to anyone (hell, he could barely admit it to himself) her sense of control puzzled him. He knew that she wanted him- those all too brief moments in the hallway spoke for itself. That was when he saw a few sparks of wildness in her, energy and life in her eyes like someone he once knew.

"Just like Katherine," he said, so deep in his thoughts he didn't realize he had spoken her name aloud.

But no, this was not exactly the same. With Katherine he had gotten too close, and after her he had made an unbreakable vow to himself.

Women were toys, conquests, games. They were not people, for you couldn't hurt over something you didn't care about. You couldn't lose that which you threw away.

* * *

Agent Connecticut pushed away a lock of long, dark hair that fell on top of her notebook with an irritated grunt. Her reading glasses were half way down her nose; she tapped the end of a well chewed pencil against the thick, creamy pages.

_Hmmm…_

Normally her page would be filled with scraps of words, scribbling of unfinished poems but today…nothing.

She frowned, sticking the pencil back in her mouth and nibbling the end thoughtfully.

An idea began to form in its usual haze- a small spark of something she couldn't identify, turning into an image of word that would spawn a series of answers to questions she didn't even knew she had.

Unfortunately, that was interrupted (as most of her ideas were) by the presence of another person. In this case, her roommate, California.

Connecticut left out a small breath of annoyance, but quickly replaced it with a smile. Bad timing seemed to be a constant event in the young Freelancer's life, and Cali didn't make much a difference either way.

Closing the book she stowed it in her place under the bed; while she enjoyed the company of her roommates and trusted them not to snoop, she couldn't stomach the idea of anyone even accidently stumbling across her private thoughts.

Connecticut lay back on her bed, leaning on her elbows with her chin in her hands, her ankles crossed. Cali was giddy today, she noted, a mood that seemed to only happen once in a blue moon. Normally her fellow Freelancer was quiet, awkward and easily startled, apologizing for everything and anything, and obviously biting back a desire to ask permission for things that Connecticut wouldn't even give a second thought.

It was now that Connecticut thought she could see the real person in Cali, the person that for some reason, rarely showed itself.

And if Connecticut had to wager a guess, she would put all of her money on Maine.

_Maine. _

That drunken, cocky, son of a bitch manwhore. Which were words she always said with a small smile on her face, teasing in her voice.

Hell, everyone did.

The exception being Wash, and a few of the jilted lovers he had left in his wake.

Cali almost never spoke of him, but Connecticut knew when she came in one night, lips swollen and hickeys beginning to blossom on her neck, her clothes smelling spicy, somewhat like cloves- his scent.

But today, as Cali sat on her own bed, her slightly damp hair forming in waves down her back, Connecticut could tell she was a dam ready to burst.

Judging by the scared by joyful expression on her roommates face, Connecticut thought it would be best to start off this particular discussion herself.

"Hey, Susannah."

Cali's head jerked up from where she had been staring at her shoes.

"It's been a while that you've called me by my real name, Emily." Her roommate gazed at her with suspicion.

_Damn. I guess I wasn't subtle enough. _

"I've seen you happier lately, and so I was just wondering what that was all about."

"I've just been, um, the weather has been really nice lately, hasn't it?" Cali's voice squeaked on the last few syllables and she wrapped her hair around her fingers over and over again, forming ringlets.

"Cali, we live in the desert. The weather never changes."

"Oh, I guess…it does. Maybe."

"Not maybe, yes." Connecticut grimaced slightly, "I knew there was something up after you came in that night, and it has nothing to do with the weather." Cali opened her mouth to speak but CT cut her off, "You know which night I'm talking about."

"Yes, I do." Cali's was bright red, from her neck to the tips of her ears.

"It's Maine, isn't it?"

Cali shook her head, the blush growing deeper. "It is not!" Her voice took on a near childish whine, like she had gotten caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

CT smirked, uncrossing her ankles and sitting up, staring at Cali straight on, "Don't bullshit me, Cali. I could.." Connecticut took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut as she said the final words, aware of how weird they would sound, "I could smell him on you. Kind of spicy and warm, right? A weird mixture of cloves and oranges and whiskey." She waved her hand dismissively, as if she were brushing off the last lingering molecules of him.

"It wasn't Maine," Cali repeated, though her words were quieter this time, and Connecticut could hear the tender way she spoke when she said his name, caressing the syllables.

CT sighed, beginning to twist a chunk of hair into a messy braid absentmindedly. "Look, Cali, you confuse the hell out of me, you really do. You almost never talk about where you come from, what your family was like, none of it. Del and I know each other now; we're beginning to feel that bond, something that you never really grasp. And I wish you did, seriously because Maine is…Maine is trouble. I really hope you haven't been blind to that."

"You think I don't know that?" Cali snapped back, "I'm not a stupid person, thank you!"

Connecticut fidgeted, lying down again before rolling over onto her back, her head hanging over the bed upside down, giddy at the sensation of rush of blood to her brain.

"I never said you were," she replied with an air of serenity, "I just know how he works. He flatters you, finds your weak spots- though how he does that is a complete mystery. Makes you feel special, one in a million. Watches as you warm up to him, fall head over heels for him. Then you get into bed with him, the sex is amazing, and he drops you faster than you can say his name."

"And you would know this how?" Cali crossed her arms over her chest and stared at her fellow Freelancer, "And why are you lying that way? You look ridiculous."

CT shrugged her shoulders, "It's kind of relaxing. You should try it sometime." And in a moment of fluid grace she vaulted off the bed in a back handspring, leaving Cali dumbstruck. "I know because I fell for it."

"How did you…that…what?"

"I was a gymnast before I joined up." Connecticut winced, "Though my muscles _definitely_ aren't what they used to be."

Cali blinked for a moment, licking her lips before attempting to speak again. "You were…" She blushed and looked down, picking at her fingernails as if she were too embarrassed to continue speaking, "You were…intimate with him?"

CT snorted, twisting her hair into a half bun on top of her head, securing it with a dirty rubber band wound around her wrist. "Yeah. Intimate. That's a word to describe it."

Cali shuffled her feet, instinctively putting her thumb in her mouth and nibbling on the short nail before realizing what she was doing, pulling it back out in haste. "I have never…I don't know…"

_Shit. _

CT sat down next to Cali, all of the buzzing restlessness in her limbs fading. "You mean you're still a virgin?"

Cali nodded, and CT sucked in her breath loudly.

"That is…a bad thing where you come from?" Cali asked, her words stilted and dry.

"No, no, not at all." Connecticut shook her head, every nerve in her body screaming at her to get up and start moving again. Despite the tension in her muscles she didn't move any inch; she needed Cali to look her in the eyes for this particular conversation. "It's just a bad thing if you are in Maine's vicinity." She touched Cali lightly on the arm, "It's not worth it, trust me. Don't do something you'll regret. If you knew what was best for you you'd stay far, far away from Maine."

Cali scowled, getting up and leaving. She knew that CT was right- how many times had she been told that before by her mother, her older sisters? But Cali was tired of being right and sweet and pure. She wasn't bound to anyone, and she never would be again. She had too much of that before, and she refused to bow her head or look away for modesty the way ever again.

Even though Connecticut hadn't meant for her words to be a challenge, Cali took the dare anyway.


	10. Passion, Misgivings, and Wants

**A/N: Shorter chapter than usual but the next chapter is going to be rather lengthy because there is so much going on. Much thanks to Icy for his critical eye, and Dark and Marti for the final once overs. **

* * *

_"I am a jumble of passions, misgivings, and wants. It seems that I am always in a state of wishing and rarely in a state of contentment."_  
_— Libba Bray (The Sweet Far Thing)_

* * *

Damn, it felt good. Wash would never able to fully push away her fears, but his kiss once again left her wanting more, and before she knew it they had ended up in bed together again, breakfast and training promptly forgotten.

But when it was all over, she sat up, the sheets falling from her body, as she wrapped her arms around her knees. She was too close to him, and while one part of her fought it, the other part of her welcomed it, and that left her the way she had been before, far too exposed, every nerve raw and throbbing with pain. She bit her lower lip, the words on the tip of her tongue.

"Cassie?" He brushed back the hair that hung in her face, placing a soft kiss on her cheek.

She pulled away, getting up and wrapping the sheet around her as she attempted to gather pieces of her armor, cursing under her breath when she couldn't find all of them.

"Where the fuck is that…?"

And as if he read her mind he procured the missing leg plate. "Here."

"Thanks," she muttered, gingerly trying to avoid making even the slightest contact with his hand, pulling the piece away more roughly than she should have, moving at an even more fervent, desperate pace.

"Where's the fire, Cass?"

She didn't answer, putting on her helmet. She didn't look in his eyes; if she did she would go back on her decision.

"I can't do this, Wash." She tried to keep her words as cold and distant as possible, but she could hear the slight shaking.

"What are you talking about?" He heard the words, could see her lips moving, but they never reached his brain, he couldn't process the meaning. Instead all he saw was the smudge of pink lipstick on the corners of her mouth, almost sad in her attempt to feel beautiful. And although she would never know it, he saw nothing but beauty in her; despite how contrary she was, how challenging and aloof and absolutely...well, as his mother would say, she was not a biddable girl.

"Us. Whatever we are. I don't want to anymore." She attempted to shrug her shoulders, but she knew the gesture fell short of being nonchalant as she had intended.

She turned on her heel, closing the door behind her, hearing his call of "Cass, wait!" but she knew she couldn't. She wouldn't.

She waited for no one, and she never would.

Nor would she dare speak the words running through her mind.

_I can't because I love you too much, and that scares the shit out of me. _

_

* * *

_

In less than twenty four hours Maine would be off on the most important mission he had received so far in Project Freelancer, and instead of preparing he was trying to fix that damn book.

It was stupid, he knew- a complete waste of his time and effort. It wasn't even worth fixing, practically disintegrating in his hands as he fumbled with tape, his fingers refusing the work the way he wanted them to. But he couldn't sit still since he last spoke to her, and against all of his better judgment (and pride) he found himself here, perched awkwardly on CT's bed as he attempted to put together the bent and broken pages.

The entire thing didn't make any goddamn sense- not why he was doing so, why she was so attached to it, or hell, even the book itself. It wasn't even written in English, the exception being a dual inscription on the very first page.

The strange characters that were now starting to be almost familiar in their complexity, followed by a childlike scrawl underneath.

_To Shoshanna on your twelfth birthday with lots of hugs and kisses from your best friend forever, _

_Rivkah_

He traced the writing with the tips of his fingers- the mysterious Rivkah had pressed down onto the paper so hard that the words left Braille like indentations. It was surreal, to see her name written that way- he had only seen it as Susannah- but it suited her better, even if the words didn't roll off his tongue the way he was certain they were supposed to.

"Maine?"

"Hmmm?"

He looked up from the pages, only to be face to face with a soldier in coral colored armor- Agent New Jersey. He almost didn't recognize her, though the armor hadn't changed. It was her voice, limp and weak, and the way she spoke to him; in their strange semi- friendship, they never used their Agent names with each other.

Even with her helmet on and her expression invisible to him he could see that she was worried, disoriented, far from her usual decisive and orderly demeanor that used to drive him crazy. It was the way she stumbled when she walked, the sag in her shoulders and neck, as if the burden of carrying her own body was too much for her.

"You look like hell, Vianne."

"Implantation," she muttered darkly, and he strained to understand her. Normally when she spoke there were the remnants of her French country upbringing in her words and intonation- no more than that- but now she had lapsed into the full accent, so thick that he could barely make out the syllables.

"What?" He placed the half repaired book on the bed- Connecticut's bed. He was suddenly hyperaware of the fact that he was intruding on their space- Cali's, CT's, Delaware's, and Vianne's- and he stood up, a prickling sensation in his limbs, much like pins and needles.

"Implantation," she repeated. "Texas, Wyoming, Delaware and…" She cleared her throat, and if Maine didn't know her better he wouldn't have caught the final Agent in her list. "Tennessee."

_Fuck._

She sunk onto her bed, starting to remove her helmet. The restlessness in his body was overpowering, and he turned away, leaving before he could go back and actually start giving a damn about her. In his haste however, his hand slipped and he found himself holding a leather bound book, the writing on the front cover eerily familiar.

Connecticut's handwriting; her overly neat cursive like a child trying to impress a teacher.

He shook his head, slipping the book in his pocket.

It wasn't his job to care about Vianne, or Connecticut, or Cali.

So why the hell was he starting to feel like he needed to?

* * *

Carolina was gone, and that should have been his first clue.

The instructions he had been given were vague, the Councilor's dull voice making it highly difficult for him to process what little information he had been given.

_I should have paid better attention_, he berated himself, feeling much as he did the first time he met her- disoriented and dizzy, ready to collapse.

Carolina had become so much a part of him, in their constant work, that with the knowledge of her absence he felt incomplete, like he was missing half his heart. However, if he was going to be honest with himself he wouldn't have noticed if Maine hadn't pointed it out that she was gone. It was pathetic, how much he yearned to pretend that he knew all along, but he couldn't even lie in his own mind.

He could have hated Maine for that- another reason to do so- but he couldn't be bothered. So instead he hated himself, for being too preoccupied with Carolina's words- to make South his friend- as opposed to the speaker.

Had he even paid attention to her at all during that conversation? He tried to remember what else she talked about, but he couldn't.

And now she was hostage for some mysterious reason, a reason that Maine didn't know either, merely shrugging his shoulders when York asked, saying nothing about where they had been taken, and pressing his lips into a tight line when York absently wondered who was his.

While he knew he should be preparing for the next morning, he ended up back in his thinking spot, shucking off his helmet and boots to stick his feet in the sand.

And so he was left with very little sleep, even less answers, and enough questions and regret to drown both.


	11. Prisons of the Mind

**A/N: Took me forever to get this exactly right. Went through more versions than you can count. Much thanks to Marti and Icy for beta-ing. While my Maine's personality and backstory was not intentionally influenced by reading Prodigal Son (which for the record I still haven't finished) the decision to use Sigma as Maine's AI is completely thanks to MissZarah.  
**

* * *

_Men are not prisoners of fate, but prisoners of their own minds. ~Franklin D. Roosevelt_

_

* * *

_

"_Good morning__, __Agent Maine_."

No. It was too fucking early to be morning. Or too late. Either way, he was too tired, his body ached too much and he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life with his face buried in his pillow.

"_It is ten o'clock in the morning, Agent Maine. You have been asleep for approximately fifty hours_."

"What?"

"_Do not be alarmed. I have been informed that the implantation and the trials you faced beforehand can be quite draining on the human body. I have also been informed that you will regain your memories of these experiences shortly, perhaps when your brainwaves are more active_."

But he was barely able to comprehend that, rubbing off the yellow crust that had built up in the corners of his eyes, blinking dazedly at the little purple and pink figure projecting itself onto his nightstand.

"So you're…?" He trailed off, his mind a giant blank. Whoever it was, they had been right about the memories, considering he couldn't recall a damn thing.

"_Intelligence Program Sigma. Though we have already been acquainted, it is a pleasure to re-introduce myself to you, Agent Maine_."

"Yeah. Okay. Uh, nice to meet you too, I guess."

Sigma.

As soon as it said it's name-was it an it? Or a he? Or even a she?-everything came rushing back. The ever ticking clock, running so fast he was practically gliding across the slick floors of their hostages' prison. The rush of joy when he found her, taking her into his arms without thinking.

Implantation. The needles, those damn needles, shiny and deadly and terrifying, sticking into his arm before he could fight back. Dizzy. Dreaming. Waking in an unfamiliar room. Seeing it- god damn what was he supposed to call it- greet into dreams, back into his own room, that stupid, creaking, lumpy bed that he never realized how much he had missed.

Connecticut. Her soft handwriting across pages and leather. Poems, secrets. Sides he never saw in her; didn't even think to see.

Then there was Cali. Cali…something about Cali.

But he couldn't put his finger whatever it was, and he sighed, throwing the mess of pillows and blankets that had landed on the floor back on his unmade bed. His head was beginning to throb again and he seriously considered crawling back under those covers and sleeping for another fifty hours. Or possibly forever.

"_Agent Maine, I would not advise you to take that path as it could have untoward consequences. Judging by your file, you have experienced too many of those consequences for one such as myself to feel entirely comfortable with_." The AI paused, and if it was possible for a computer program to be amused, Maine swore that it was. "_And for future reference, Agent Maine, I am indeed female_."

He placed his hand to his forehead, the room spinning sideways. "Good to know."

"_I am glad to assist you, Agent Maine_." The sound of her voice made him even more disoriented, and although his stomach was painfully empty he tried to resist the need to retch all over the floor. He took a deep breath, his throat dry and his words hoarse.

"Sigma?"

"_Yes?_"

"Can you do me a favor and stop being so damn formal?"

"_I will try my best to do so, Agent Maine_."

"Yeah, I see you're working real hard at that." He rolled his eyes. "And Sigma?"

"_Yes?_"

"Call me Maine."

"_Archived and_ _noted, Maine_."

"Thanks."

* * *

Its name was Theta. And it was complete fucking bullshit, as far as South was concerned. It was a sickly shade of mustard yellow, and had a tinny, high pitched voice—one that she was doomed to hear far too often as her idiotic twin loved showing it off, the figure now a constant appearance near his left shoulder.

"Seriously, can you turn it off for five goddamn seconds?" South was getting close to pleading by now, though she would break the stupid thing before she'd succumb to begging.

"Theta's not an it, Cass. Theta is a he."

"Yeah, now that we've cleared _that_ matter of burning importance up, can you turn _him_ off, then?" South crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Theta. It was bad enough that as soon as North had been sent off for implantation she had been informed that she wasn't "ready for the strenuous responsibilities and mental stability required to host an Artificial Intelligence unit and will be placed in the next implant group". Now, however, she was forced to share a room with him, of all people!

Yeah, sure, she wouldn't miss Tex much. But she had grown used to- even enjoying- the company of Georgia and Carolina. Now Carolina would be sharing a room with York and Georgia…well, South didn't want to think about that more than necessary.

When South had asked (and by asked meaning protested loudly) the Councilor why the sudden shift in rooming assignments, she hadn't gotten a single response. Well, a single response worth remembering. Instead it was the usual veiled words that could mean everything or nothing at all, in a tone that made South want to go to sleep.

"_Agent North Dakota, it appears my presence is causing a severe amount of disturbance in Agent South Dakota_—"

"Like hell it is!" South growled.

"—_judging by her vital signs, particularly a rise in blood pressure. Therefore, I suggest that_-"

"Fuck this." South walked away, wishing to she could talk to, or hell, even see the one person who may possibly understand, but that could never happen.

Not anymore.

* * *

"Yes!"

"_Targets eliminated, 95% efficiency. Thirty two shots fired, consider reloading before next simulation._"

With recklessness flooding through every inch of her body, California ducked behind a faux- green tree in their large practice facility. Previously the area had been restricted to recruits with AI, and Cali had felt a rushed mix of excitement, nerves and superiority as she had her dog tags scanned.

Some of the others who had been implanted—her roommate New Jersey among them—were still having difficulties with adjusting to their AI but Cali warmed up to Xi right away, the attraction stronger than she would have thought. Xi filled up empty parts of her that had never been allowed to shine through before, making Cali realize the depth of the experiences she had missed so much. Every sense was heightened, her decisions quicker and more carefree, bold and unafraid of the consequences. With Xi Cali felt she could become the woman she always wanted to be, no longer able to be controlled by any man in her life.

_If only they could see me now._ Her father, her former fiance, all looking for a way to keep her tamed and in her place. Her place was here, independent being the best she could be, not subservient to someone else.

Cali heard a muffled string of curses to the right and was assaulted by a blast of rubber bullets. She ran to the other side of the compound, avoiding the hail of gunfire. Unfortunately, despite Xi's stream of whispered instructions, Cali overshot her intended cover spot by at least fifteen feet and slipped, landing on her back. Two pairs of boots swam in her line of vision, one of which slammed down onto her throat, hard.

Cali whelped in pain, barely able to let out the smallest of breaths. "What…" Her eyesight was distorted but she could see the light green of Tennessee's armor, as well as the ruby wine tint of Massachusetts. "Tenn? Massa?" Tennessee crushed his boot toe into her throat like he was grounding out a cigarette. Her mind tried to make sense out of the viciousness of their attack but Cali could think of nothing except pain, and the desperate struggle for air.

"_Alarm!_" Before her, Xi flashed between his normal ice blue color and a garish salmon. The call was ear splittingly shrill, and normally Cali would have been annoyed but she felt as though she were underwater, noises and sensation sluggish and distilled. She floated inside herself, her limbs lighter and lighter as her lungs struggled to greedily grasp molecules of oxygen. Her helmet had been pulled off by rough, calloused hands and the harsh lighting from above made Cali wince and close her eyes.

Everything was receding; memories turned into vivid scraps of sense, backwards in time but to Cali, her reality.

Maine finding her in the hostage base, how she had lost control again at the sight of him, instincts she had never realize she possessed until she was on top of him, so close to the unthinkable. Hesitation, double thinking. Could she really go this far? What was she supposed to do? He kissed her again, shown her—oh, how he had shown her—everything in that moment, pain and lust, beginnings and endings, emotions she couldn't even put words into. Maine had whispered her name, "Shoshanna" in her ear and she never felt so _connected_ to another person in her life. When his name escaped from her lips in a sigh she saw his grey eyes flash with something covetous, an expression within him she had never seen before. And maybe, just maybe, her thoughts told her, Connecticut had been right all along…

"I said get the hell off of her!"

The clatter of armor, and Cali's airway was clear once again, air rushing into her body and mind so quickly that she began to cough violently, like her lungs were being ripped apart. Her throat was raw; she could taste blood when she attempted to swallow.

Someone offered her their black gloved hand and she shook her head.

"_It is perfectly safe, California. Agent New York merely wishes to assist you. I was able to get into contact with the Intelligence Program Delta while you were unconscious_."

York? Cali's mind tried to make sense of that but Xi's words were too much for her to process in such a short amount of time.

"You okay, Cali?"

Cali blinked and the world seemed to be less fuzzy; she could now clearly make out York's tan armor and a green AI in Mark IV armor projected near his left shoulder.

"I'm fine," she said, this time taking his hand. He pulled her to her feet and she stumbled a little. Everything had _seemed_ all right when she was flat on her back, but that didn't appear to be the case now that she was back on her feet. She licked her lips, the air around her head maddeningly cold as she realized with blind panic that her helmet was gone.

"Where's…?"

"Here," he said, giving her the helmet which she hugged to her body in a protective, child-like gesture.

"Thanks."

"Welcome." The AI on York's shoulder changed from green to white to green again in less than five seconds, and Cali's head pounded at the light.

"_York, judging on a quick scan of Agent California's vital signs, I would suggest that you accompany her to the infirmary immediately_."

"On it, D." York wrapped his arm around Cali's waist, and Cali flinched a little at the touch. He pulled away in an instant. "Oh, uh, sorry. You're just still a little unsteady on your feet there."

Cali shook her head and jammed her helmet on her head with more force than was necessary. She wanted—no, needed—Xi's voice now. "I'm fine."

"Don't think that will get me to dismiss taking you to the med bay to be checked out, Cali. Massachusetts and Tennessee did a hell of a number on you before D and I could get over there."

"D?" Cali repeated dumbly, feeling like a five year old again, having everything spelled out to her.

"Delta," York clarified. The tone in his voice was one of warmth and attachment, and Cali smiled a little at the affection.

"Oh. Yes. Of course." Maybe York feels the same way about Delta like I do about Xi, she thought. She wouldn't be surprised if that was the case; in their very brief flirtation she had seen what an affectionate person York was, how he drew people to him with a few kind words or a joke, yet managed to say driven and on course when he worked with Carolina . If anyone could bond with an AI, it would be him. "Where's 'Lina?" Cali asked, surprised that she wasn't by his side.

"Still with the Councilor. They're making more modifications with her armor; she's getting a new helmet for both of her AI."

"Both of her AI?" Suddenly Cali was lightheaded again, and not from her injuries. "Why are they giving her more than one?"

"I dunno." York shrugged his shoulders and Delta spoke up for him.

"_The Councilor made the decision that Agent Carolina would be the perfect candidate to host two AI modules based on her battle ratings and psychological profile. Though I cannot say for certain, my deduction indicates this was triggered by Omega being reassigned from Agent Massachusetts back to Agent Texas once again_."

Everything was going far too fast for Cali, and she could feel her knees going weak again. York pressed his hand against the small of her back to support her, and this time she didn't flinch. "Massa had Omega? When? I thought Omega was re-assigned from Tex to Tennessee, not Massachusetts."

The pair flashed their dog tags at the concealed door which opened to the rest of the Base.

"_The implantation of Omega into Tennessee was not considered successful, and therefore Massachusetts was the next candidate_." Delta answered her before York could, and she saw York shake his head in a good natured sort of way.

"So Massa and Tenn ganging up on me…?"

"_Was most likely an after-effect of the implantation and removal of Omega_." This time it was Xi's turn to finish her sentences for her.

"Here we are." York stopped in front of the med bay and on impulse, cupped her chin in his hands. "Take care of yourself, Cali."

She wrenched herself away from him, her voice gruff with repressed emotion. "I'm fine, York. I'll be fine."

She wondered if the more she said those words the more they would feel true.


	12. Choices

**A/N: Much thanks to Martienne for beta-ing, and my good friend Kyota for use of her name. I did change Carolina's background a bit, and she is no longer Argentine. It just wasn't working for what I want to achieve with her. **

* * *

"What happens if your choice is misguided?  
You must try to correct it.  
But what if it's too late? What if you can't?  
Then you must find a way to live with it."  
— Libba Bray (A Great and Terrible Beauty)

* * *

"Does it dance?"

"The fuck kind of question is that, Mich?" Maine looked at his training partner, Michigan, with cynicism but Mich didn't notice as he was too busy staring at Sigma. Sigma seemed to be enjoying the attention far too much, as she changed colors and appearances in the blink of an eye, leaving Maine with the beginnings of a pounding headache. "Sig, cut it out. _Please_."

"_My apologies, Maine_." Sigma returned to her usual purple armor, and promptly disappeared from view. "_Retiring_."

Maine sighed. It was still an alien sensation, to have someone else filtering through his thoughts and memories, and as much as he tried to hold back what he was thinking, to distract himself, he would forget and for a few, brief moments become himself again.

"_There is no need to censor yourself in my presence, Maine_." Sig may have disappeared from public view but he could always feel her there, in the back of his mind. "_It is not my job to pass judgment on any thought that passes through your mind. That would not assist you in any way, shape or form_." Sigma made a slight whirring sound before speaking again. "_My motion sensors indicate that Agent Connecticut is approaching to your left_."

"Maine." The voice was cold, stony, and unmistakable. He turned around; sure enough CT stood in front of him, hand on her hips and a fierce, dangerous glow in her eyes instead of her normally easygoing playfulness. "I believe you have something of mine."

_Fuck me hard. _

She knew. How the hell could she have known so quickly?

"Yours?" He bluffed, trying to keep his tone as light as possible. "Sorry, sweetheart, you must be mistaken."

"Bullshit, Maine." She moved closer to him, nearly level to him, making his attempts to lie bear even closer scrutiny. He vaguely wondered how she could have made it as far in her former profession as she had considering her unusual height. She grabbed him by the wrist and in a flash of moment so quick he nearly missed it, twisted his arm behind his back. "Where is it, asshole?"

"Jeez, Em, calm down. I have it, all right? In my room. Now if you would let me go and stop being fucking insane, I'll get it for ya. Happy?" She wrenched his arm further, and he winced, curling his good hand into a fist. He knew that she had a point; he shouldn't have messed around with her possessions. But did she have to be so damn twisted about it?

Apparently she did considering she grabbed his other hand, preventing him from even salvaging a sliver of his pride back. "Ecstatic."

* * *

Agent Carolina had been in the military for a little over half her thirty four years, and she had suffered various injuries in doing so. However, when she woke up with long, deep gashes in her arms and no recollection as to how she had gotten them, she could feel her heart sinking into the floor. They weren't particularly painful, and they wouldn't leave a scar.

But they were all too familiar, and for the first time in a long time, Carolina began to tremble with fear.

" 'Lina? You ready?" York leaned up against the door frame, helmet dangling from his fingertips carelessly.

Carolina rubbed her eyes, and without thinking, snapped. "Do you think I'm ready, York? I'm not even dressed!" The words came out harsher than she intended, and she wished she could take them back when she saw his features fall just a little bit. He quickly cleared his throat and corrected his expression, as if nothing had happened.

'Lina stared at the new helmet she had been given- EVA as opposed to the usual Mark VI. She dreaded putting it on but not for the reasons York might think, as he watched her with his concerned gaze. It wasn't physically painful, or difficult to manage. At least, not yet. But the seeds were beginning to be sown in the recesses of her mind, with Tau holding her strongest temptation so close, only to wrench it away at the last minute. It was for her own good, but she began to resent the cruelty, resent the way he pulled back into her mind.

Lambda on the other hand, was soothing, making her forget, at least for a little while. It was a constant contradiction, and she found herself dazed at times, angry at others. Far from the person York had ever known, and she cringed a little in shame that he was beginning to feel the wrath of her inner demons.

She felt herself falling into what she used to want so badly, to no longer being the Carolina that was invisible, used up and turned away. She had kept the chaos under control for so long after her seventeenth birthday, when she had been found strung out, doing the unthinkable to satisfy that need inside of her. The addiction that turned a good little girl into a barely recognizable whore.

York had no idea; Carolina couldn't bring herself to tell him, well aware of his stance on that sort of thing, considering his own upbringing. She got the feeling that she didn't even know half of his story, though she couldn't tell if that was a good or bad thing. Either way, while she winced as she pulled on her gloves and finally her helmet, York was nearly bursting with impatience.

She allowed herself a small smile at that—his stubbornness, impatience and pride didn't stop him from having such a good temperament; in fact in some sort of odd way they enhanced it. She sighed, for once the high pitched voice of Lambda in her helmet doing nothing to soothe the desperate pounding in her body.

_**You will be fine, Agent Carolina. Place your focus on something else for the meantime. **_

And then, of course, Tau had to follow up; at times the pair squabbled with each other for hours on end, throwing her off balance during simulations.

"_But we know what you want Carolina…I know it better than Lambda…all you need is a taste of what you truly need…so easy to obtain here more than ever…_"

"Shut up, God damn it!" She took a deep breath, trying to steady the dizziness that washed through her body.

You can do this, Carolina, she said to herself. Focus, just focus on something. Anything but that, anything but the morphine…

York. Yes, York was always the best alternative. He, of course, had no idea how much of an anchor he was, how much she cared about him. She wouldn't pretend she was entirely unselfish, or prone to jealousy, especially considering the way he still looked at South.

He would never look at her that way, never see her as more than his partner, so why did she still cling to the hope that he would? It was pathetic, beyond pathetic, as Tau like to taunt her with when he wasn't trying to pull her closer to Michigan, and the control he had over the medical bay.

She sighed, digging her nails into the palms of her hands, the red marks on her arms beginning to bleed a little.

Something else, Carolina, she admonished herself.

You're not doing a very good job of forgetting, Carolina. Not very good at all. But I know what will…

"Shut up, Tau! Just shut up!"

"Carolina?" York walked over to her side at once. "Are you sure you're all right?" He had gotten into the habit of asking her this several times a day, and the repetition was beginning to grate on her. She was supposed to be caring for him, caring for everyone, not the other way around. But nowadays the burden of doing so felt even heavier, stones weighing on her chest until she was drowning.

"Yeah," she mumbled, falling back onto the lie that used to be her second nature when she would stumble home late at night, high and tripping.

Her parents had been unsure of what to do with her, finally dropping her off at the military recruitment office, threatening that if she didn't enlist and clean up she wouldn't have a home to return to.

"Ky, what the hell is that on your arm?" York's voice now had an unrecognizable quality to it, and he was at her side in an instant, holding it, inspecting the damage with the eagle eyes that so suited him in his specialty.

"Nothing." She wrenched out of his grip but he wasn't giving up that easily.

"Don't give me that bullshit, Kyota. I know better than that. I know you—"

No, you don't, she thought. And you never will.

But before she could even muster an ounce of courage to tell him their budding argument was interrupted by a piercing, earth shattering scream that sent an eerie chill down the back of her spine.

York rushed outside, Carolina frozen to her spot until she heard him speaking, absolutely thick with grief and horror.

"Oh my God," she breathed.

In the hallway, South's bruised and battered body was bent at an unnatural angle, and Maine stood over her, his hands soaked in her blood.


	13. Haunted

**A/N: For the first time in ages, I've updated! I am mostly preoccupied with other projects right now, so don't expect this to be a frequent occurance. But once those are done, it will be updated regularly. Thanks to Martienne for being a wonderful beta!**

* * *

_One need not be a chamber to be haunted;  
One need not be a house;  
The brain has corridors surpassing  
Material place.  
~Emily Dickinson, "Time and Eternity"_

_

* * *

_

Blood pooled between his fingers, a steady flow that looked almost poetic on the floor. Maine felt as though he were in some sort of grotesque tableau, that if he closed his eyes it would all go away. That South would be fine, that he hadn't been too late. That by finding her, bruised and falling to pieces in the hallway he may have done some good. That he may have saved her, unlike what had happened so many years ago, half a lifetime ago.

He brushed aside one of South's blood-soaked curls and leaned in, listening for breaths, longing to feel that warmth on his face.

And it was there, but barely, and he could hear Sigma in the recesses of his mind, nudging him.

_Maine, get her to the medical bay. Now. Her heart rate is dangerously low. _

Maybe it was hearing those words that left him frozen in place, too terrified to move, even though he knew he had to. Or maybe it was those remembrances he thought were dead and buried, coming back to life. Those damn ghosts that would forever linger.

_Maine, get her out of here!_

But he could not. It was too strong now, and he was losing his grip. On South, on reality, on time and present. Instead he sunk to the floor, to his knees, and South's inert body slipped from his hands.

* * *

"_Sawyer!"_

_She bounds up to him as always, a sunny smile on her face. Schoolbag overloaded, she has a handful of papers and books nestled into one arm. They are only freshman, but she is already in several AP classes. He has no idea why she is so devoted to her studies—he prefers to just skate by on whatever he can—but if she wants to study with him after school, so be it; he'd do anything for her. _

_That's what best friends are for, right?_

_Her free hand reaches for his, her fingers loosely entangled with his own. It's meant to be nothing more than a friendly gesture, but to he can hardly keep himself upright. She's more than some girl he hooked up with in the coat closet, or at a friend's party. She means the world to him, and she has no idea. _

"_What's up, Katherine?"_

_He is the only person who calls her Katherine; everyone, even her own parents, call her Kat. But she resembles more of a Katherine to him, with light brown curls down her back, wide blue eyes, and freckles dotted across her nose. _

_He likes to draw out the syllables, to make them sound bigger and more grandiose than they actually were. Worthy of her. _

"_Hockey practice," she says lightly, nodding towards her overstuffed satchel. "I forgot my gym bag today." She frowns, and his heart sinks. He can't bear to see her unhappy, even if it's minor. "And I forgot my shin guards," she murmurs. "I'm gonna be late if I walk back…"_

"_No big deal." He smiles at her. "You head on over to the rink, and I'll run home and grab them for you." They had been next door neighbors for years; her house is his second home. _

"_Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She tosses her arms around his neck, scattering her papers to the sidewalk. Spontaneously, she gives him a kiss on the cheek, and he blushes. _

" '_S no problem," he says, and she takes off one way; he goes the other. _

Had he known, he never would have let her out of his sight. Had he known, he would have insisted that they walk back to her house together, and skipped practice altogether. But how could he have known that on the way she would take a shortcut, in an alley? And that hours later, her fragile, beaten, unmoving body would be left there, unnoticed, with the last bit of life draining from her?

He couldn't have.

But that never stopped him from hating himself.

* * *

_Washington…_

Whispering, always whispering. He couldn't take it anymore. He felt as though his mind would explode from it, from the images, constantly pounding the sides of his skull. Punch drunk, but far worse. For this came with terror, night terrors he was trying so hard to fight, but never could. That was how the memories trickled down into his being. Through his sleep—or at least, at first. But now they were more erratic, showing up whenever they damn well pleased. In the mess hall, while he struggled to eat breakfast. During a training session with Georgia and her AI, Beta. And now, in the corridor running between the different Agents' sleeping quarters.

_Washington…_

"No," he said, and the dark blue figure that materialized by his side shook its head sadly.

_Help me, Washington. Please. We have to find her. We have to make it stop. _

"No, damn it!" Wash covered his ears with his elbows, but the effort was futile. He couldn't drown out what was in his thoughts. "I don't want to."

_Neither do I_.

"Then shut the fuck up, Epsilon!"

_But we need to. She's trapped, don't you see?_

"I. Do. Not. Care." Wash punctuated each word with a kick to the wall opposite him.

The pain that pierced his temple was so excruciating that Wash heard himself screaming like a dying animal and he sunk to the floor, his head in his hands. Another blast of it and he was curled into the fetal position, his ears ringing.

"Okay… okay…" Wash could barely catch his breath, and it took all of his willpower not to scream again as the wave of pain spread into small ripples throughout his body, touching every single nerve. "Okay…Epsilon…I…get….it…fuck!"

Slowly the pain receded and Wash was able to think clearly again, to see the world in color instead of a grainy, tear-filled black and white. And it was then that the saw the blood smeared on his hands.

"Ep?"

_South Dakota was in the way_.


End file.
